CHAPTER XIII
The walk to Borton was one Anita long remembered; along the Portsmouth Road, on through the little villages, smiling and fair, then Borton. When she was not walking with Lillian and chatting about dogs, flowers or Great-aunt Manning, she was being entertained by Mr. Kirkby with tales of Sussex, and for the first time realized how rich in history was this county of her mother's birth. It was here, the good clergyman told her, from one of these villages, that Harold rode on his mission to the Duke of Normandy. One can see a representation of that event on the Bayeux tapestry. It was in Sussex that King Canute had a palace, and tradition has it that on this spot he defied the rising tide.
"Oh, there is much to learn about Sussex," the rector told her. "It claims more than one literary celebrity, and can show you many interesting pages of history."
"How well you know it," exclaimed Anita.
"There is scarce a spot which I have not visited. I have walked its length and breadth, and know its most secluded corners. We shall have to have some good walks, all of us. You will like to see Hastings and Battle Abbey, the great castle at Arundel and you will like to go to Brighton. We shall have to plan a lot of excursions this summer."
"But first we must find Pepé," declared Anita.
"Our finding him will not interfere with the excursions," replied Mr. Kirkby with a smile. "By to-morrow we can find out whether or not he is in Chichester. It does not take long to exhaust the possibilities of a town of that size."
"And then what next?" inquired Anita.
"We shall advertise in several papers, London ones as well as others, and if necessary get a detective at work."
"But won't that cost a great deal?" asked Anita anxiously.
The rector looked down at her with a fatherly smile. "That is something you don't have to bother your little head about. Now, then, let's look at that bank of primroses; it's as fine a one as I have seen. You've come at a lovely time of year to old England, a time of poetry and beauty. There is a fine flock of sheep over there. You know the May Queen, of course: 'And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lambs.' Do you remember? Tennyson had a country home at Blackdown, you know, not so very far from where I live. You will like to go there some day."
Anita looked off to where a flock of sheep whitened the green field like a moving drift of soiled snow. She thought it a picturesque sight. But suddenly her attention was arrested by the sight of a little lamb tottering along on feeble legs and smeared with blood. "Look, look," she cried, "something has torn that poor little lamb. Could it be dogs? Don't the shepherds watch them more carefully than that?"
Mr. Kirkby looked in the direction she indicated, put on his glasses and looked again, then burst into a hearty laugh. "She doesn't know our sheep country, does she Lillian?" he said to the latter who had just come up with Mrs. Beltrán. "Poor little lamb, it is dreadfully torn, isn't it Lillian?"
Then Lillian laughed, too, and Anita began to think them exceedingly heartless, but seeing her expression Mr. Kirkby patted her on the arm and began to explain. "Don't waste your sympathies on the lamb, my child," he said. "I will tell you what has happened. The lamb's mother has died or has been killed, and to save the lamb they have given it to another mother whose own lamb has died. She would not care for an unfamiliar lambkin so they have stripped the dead lamb of its fleece and fastened it upon the living lamb to make the mother sheep accept it as her own."
"Oh!" Anita looked again. "Oh, how very queer and interesting. It is a great country for sheep, isn't it?"
"A great one. You have heard of the South-down mutton, of course. Over toward Lewes is the South-down country more particularly. We shall have to take you over there, but you may eat some of the mutton almost anywhere."
They were now coming to Borton. The tide was rising and the little town on its estuary looked a charming place, a fact Anita was quick to remark upon.
"We think it quite ugly when the tide is out," Lillian told her, "though artists flock here and paint even the mud flats. They look very well in pictures with the spire of the old church somewhere in the background, but we like it best when the tide is up."
A short walk took to them to the door of Primrose Cottage, a quaintly-pretty, vine-hung abode with garden wandering off at the back and laburnum bushes at the side. It was more spacious than at first appeared as Anita noted as soon as she stepped inside. They were met at the door by an erect old lady with penetrating grey eyes, a widow's cap upon her head and a little shawl over her shoulders.
"Well, here you are at last," she exclaimed. "What brought you here, Ernest Kirkby?" she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I came to protect the strangers," retorted he, merrily.
"Sounds like your impudence," returned the old lady. "This is Katharine, of course. She looks like I supposed she would after not having laid eyes on her for—how many years is it?"
"It must be as many as sixteen or seventeen," responded her niece. "I don't see that time has changed you much, Aunt Manning."
"It hasn't changed her a particle," Mr. Kirkby put in. "I'll venture to say she hasn't altered one opinion that she ever held."
"I'm not a turn-coat, whatever I am," Mrs. Manning answered back, leading the way into the pleasant living room. "See if Tibbie has tea ready to bring in, Lillian. I want to have a look at this child of Katharine's. Come over here to the light, child, and let me see if there is any Drayton in your looks."
She led Anita to the small-paned window and took her face between two wrinkled, but still delicate, hands. "Can't see a sign of Drayton," she decided at last. "I'm afraid you are all Spanish, except that you are not dark. There is one thing to be thankful for, however, you haven't that long, narrow, phiz of Philip's. Ugh! how I despise that face of his."
"Never mind, Philip, Granny," said Lillian, coming in. "He can wait till we have nothing else to talk about. Anita isn't responsible for him."
"She'd have her hands full if she were," declared the old lady. "But, Anita! What a name! Why didn't you give her some good sound English name, Katharine?"
"She was named for her father's mother, who was called Ana. Anita means little Ana, just as Nancy or Nannie do in our tongue."
"Then I shall call her Nannie. No, Nancy; I like that better."
"I was always called Nancy till less than two years ago," Anita spoke up.
"Then Nancy you shall be to me. I will have none of that lingo in my house, not after Torquemada——"
"Here is the tea, Granny," Lillian interrupted hastily, and for the moment Torquemada was allowed to rest in peace.
"Now tell me all about it. How and when you came, how long you shall stay, and all the rest of it," said Mrs. Manning, when all were served from the "curate" which was wheeled up to her.
"We came by way of Paris. We arrived yesterday and we shall stay as long as it seems hopeful that we may find my son here," Mrs. Beltrán replied.
"I suppose the son has some outlandish Spanish name, too. How you ever expect to find him, in an English-speaking country, with an unpronounceable name is more than I can tell. What did you tell me was his name, Katharine?"
"It is José, but we call him by the diminutive, which is Pepé."
"Of all ridiculous names," cried Aunt Manning. "Sounds like baby talk. Pay-pay. Baby 'ants to pay-pay. I shall never call him by anything so silly. What is it in English, plain English?"
"It is Joseph, Aunt Manning; Joe, I suppose we might say," Mrs. Beltrán answered with an amused smile.
"Joseph. Good, that is a good family name. We have Josephs in the family as far back as sixteen hundred. And where do you imagine this Joseph is?"
"We have learned that he came to England, and are going on that information," Mrs. Beltrán told her. "Mr. Kirkby is going to help us follow up the clue."
"Well, Ernest is used to following up clues. He can out-argue almost anybody in the county except me, and I will not be out-argued by anybody. I have a right to my opinions."
"So have I! So have I," spoke up Mr. Kirkby. "The trouble with Mrs. Manning is this," he said, turning to Mrs. Beltrán, "she calls everyone opinionated who will not change an opinion to suit hers, but she isn't a bit opinionated. Oh, no, not she."
"Will you stop that clatter, Ernest Kirkby?" cried Mrs. Manning. "The idea of a little whippersnapper like you daring to overrule me. Why, I have taken you home to your mother to spank, dozens of times, and I'd do it again if she were alive."
Mr. Kirkby put back his head and roared. He dearly loved to provoke just such speeches.
"Do stop your noise," said Mrs. Manning, shaking her head at him. "With such a roaring bull of Bashan about one can't think. What was I saying, Katharine? Oh, yes, about finding this boy. It is going to be some expense, isn't it?"
"Now, Mrs. Manning"—Mr. Kirkby became serious—"that is not a matter that we need discuss. The time to spend money hasn't come yet."
"Well, when that time does come there will need to be money to spend, won't there? What I was going to say, Katharine, was this: I see no use in your wasting your means on lodging houses and all that. You and Annie, no, it was to be Nancy, wasn't it? You and Nancy had best come right here and stay with us and save your money."
Then Anita understood why Aunt Manning was an old dear. But Mrs. Beltrán began to protest and Mrs. Manning turned suddenly to Lillian. "Go tell Tibbie to come get the tea things," she said, "and take Nancy with you. Show her the greenhouse and the garden, but don't let the dogs in. They will scratch up that new border I have been having Timpkins make. I want to talk to Katharine. I suppose I shall have to let Ernest stay, for a man does have the wit to understand a situation once in a while, though young people never do."
At this parting shot the two girls left the room. Anita was beginning to understand that Aunt Manning's bark was worse than her bite, and really felt that she could like her. There was a mocking glimmer in those sharp gray eyes which told the tale.
"She is having a lovely time," declared Lillian. "If there is anything Granny loves it is a bout with Mr. Kirkby. She adores him and he does her, although to hear them you would think they meant to tear each other's eyes out. There is Hotspur. You can make his acquaintance while I go speak to Tibbie."
Anita set herself to work to make friends with an amber-eyed tawny-hued Angora which lay curled up on the window-sill. He stretched himself lazily and responded to her strokings by loud purrs, opening one sleepy eye to view the unfamiliar presence. He evidently thought well of her, for he did not move, but continued his contented purrs and permitted the caresses. Haddie and Tommy, waiting outside, were at first in high glee when they saw the two girls come out, but stood in dejected attitude when they were forbidden to pass through the gate which led into the rambling garden.
The garden of itself was a delight, a riot of spring blossoms, and in the tiny greenhouse were other plants waiting to be set out. Among these plants, sunning himself on a ledge, they found Signor Verdi, a lithe green creature, tame enough to allow Lillian to scratch his head and to take him in her hand where he lay quietly enough, but flashed back among the green when Anita tried to make friends with him. "Sometimes in winter I lose sight of him for weeks," Lillian told her, "then some bright morning I come out and there he is as alive as possible."
They made the rounds of garden and greenhouse and then returned to the house to find Mrs. Manning and Mr. Kirkby chaffing, arguing, all but quarreling.
"I have always maintained I will have nothing Spanish in my house," Mrs. Manning was saying.
"Not even Spanish mackerel, I suppose," the rector suggested.
"I certainly don't order Spanish olives, nor Spanish oil; I am very particular about that. No, Ernest Kirkby, I maintain that I have made it a rule not to encourage Spanish products."
"I'll bet you tuppence that you eat something Spanish every day of your life," cried her antagonist.
"I beg you will mention it."
"Marmalade, orange marmalade. You can't deny that you eat it to your breakfast every morning."
"Nonsense. Why, man alive, it is Scotch, made in Dundee. You should know that."
"I do know that," the rector retorted triumphantly. "Of course it is Dundee marmalade, but where do the oranges come from? Seville! Seville! They have to use those bitter oranges, you know."
Mrs. Manning was nonplussed for the moment, then she broke out into a hearty laugh. "It's never too late to mend," she said. "Lillian, I want you to see to it that there is always strawberry jam on the table at breakfast after this."
"Oh, but Granny, I like orange marmalade so much better to my breakfast."
"Then you can buy it. I shall not," replied her grandmother, lifting her eyebrows and half shutting her eyes, but smiling at the same time. "I'll get even with you yet, Ernest Kirkby," she cried. "See if I don't. Not going, are you?"
"I must be getting on. Dear woman, I am afraid to stay. This is my hour of triumph and I don't want to lose its glow by tarrying too long, besides I promised to spend the night in Chichester with a friend. I shall see you very soon again, all of you."
Mrs. Manning looked after him as he went off briskly down the street. "There goes one of the best men that ever lived," she commented. "I never could see what you were thinking of, Katharine, to throw him over for that poor visionary."
"I suppose it was for the same reason that you threw over 'Squire Topham for Uncle Manning," returned Mrs. Beltrán, having learned from Mr. Kirkby the best kind of weapons to use in her controversies with her aunt.
"Humph!" Aunt Manning ejaculated, but did not pursue the subject. It was a matter of family history that Aunt Manning might have married an heir to nobility, but that she had preferred another and poorer man. She had been a widow for many years. Her only son had gone into the army, had married in India, and at the death of his wife had sent his baby girl home to his mother in England. His death, a few years later, left Lillian with no one but her grandmother to look to, and the two, who understood one another, were devoted.
The two girls were hardly in before they were out again, for Lillian would show Anita the harbor when the tide was up and the fishing boats sitting gallantly upon the shining water. The dogs, too, were begging for a walk and being persons of importance must be indulged. Haddie trotted along daintily, avoiding mud as a gentleman should, but Tommy was into everything, and Lillian, who read into her pets certain peculiarities, entertained Anita by describing them. She maintained that Hotspur could sing, though he had no ear for music and always was off the key. Tommy, since associating with Haddie, tried hard not to drop his H's, but always forgot when he was excited. Moreover, he lisped a little. She talked so seriously about these characteristics, that Anita came to believe they really possessed them, and found them vastly amusing.
On the way down the street they met a well set-up young man, with a fine, straightforward manner and a clear blue eye. He was presented as Bertie Sargent. "We are old playfellows," said Lillian to her cousin. "It was Bertie who gave me Tommy."
"Oh, was it?" Anita wondered if this were why Tommy appeared to be the favorite.
The three walked down to the harbor, coming upon an artist hard at work trying to catch the reflections in the water before the light should fade. Bertie flung him some chaffing remark which he answered in kind, and presently began packing up his sketching kit, calling to them to wait for him. "The light has gone," he said, "and there's no use keeping on."
They walked slowly to allow him to overtake them, meanwhile Lillian hastily informed her cousin that he had come down from London for sketching; that he was a cousin of Bertie's, and that he would certainly make his mark as his work had already been hung by the Royal Academy. His name, she said, was Harry Warren.
It naturally fell out that Anita should walk back with the young artist while Lillian and Bertie followed on behind. There were many nonsensical remarks tossed back and forth and before they reached Primrose Cottage Anita felt herself on a very friendly footing with them all. It was good to be again among those of her own age and speaking her own language, and there were few regrets for Spain that evening.
She was given her choice of sharing a room with her mother or with Lillian, and at the latter's urging decided to become her room-mate. "We should be excellent friends," remarked Lillian, as she stood before her mirror, briskly brushing her thick light hair. "You see we are much in the same boat. Neither of us has a father and we were neither of us born in England."
"I am afraid the fact of my not having been will work against me with Aunt Manning," replied Anita, ruefully. "Why is she so terribly down on Spain?"
"Haven't you discovered the reason? It is because of your mother. Granny was devoted to her sister, your grandmother, and to your mother as well, so she cannot forgive your father for making them both unhappy, and since she cannot wreak her vengeance on him she takes it out on Spain itself, and especially upon the two whom she considers the most deserving of abuse. She really gets a great deal of satisfaction out of it, a sort of vicarious punishment, as it were. Poor, dear Granny; you will have to be very enthusiastic about England if you want to please her."
"I shall not have to try," returned Anita, "for I really feel enthusiastic. Isn't Mr. Kirkby an old dear?"
"He is most delightful. He is another cause of Granny's feeling of ill-will toward your father. She wanted Cousin Katharine to marry Mr. Kirkby and believes that she might have done so but for your father. So you see she has a double grudge."
"I understand, and am glad you have unravelled the mystery. I couldn't understand why she was so dreadfully down on Spain."
Lillian tossed her thick braid of hair over her shoulder, and snuggled down at the foot of the bed to watch her cousin's preparations for the night. They grew more and more confidential, though neither spoke of the one nearest her heart, although the last thought of Anita was given to her lost lover, while a vision of Bertie Sargent slipped from a remembrance into a dream of Lillian's.