CHAPTER XVI
When the two girls reëntered the house they found Mrs. Manning in the sitting-room in a testy humor. "I do wish you'd get some fresh flowers, Lillian," she complained. "I am tired of seeing these. One would suppose that it was mid-winter or that we had to pay a shilling apiece for them," she said.
"I'll get some fresh ones," replied Lillian, and then wishing to interest her grandmother in something else, but unfortunately choosing the wrong subject, she remarked: "We had quite a visit with Aunt Bets. She sent her thanks for the cap."
"Naturally," responded Mrs. Manning, sarcastically.
"She had her prophecies to the fore," Lillian went on, "and predicts war."
"War! It is nothing but that foolish talk. Those two silly women who have just gone—thank Heaven they did go—they had to ding it into one's ears. Can't one hear about anything else? I am sick of it. Don't stand there like a stock or stone, Lillian staring at me. I have a right to speak my own mind in my own house. War! War! Has no one a grain of sense these days? Of course we all know it's those Germans, but if they choose to be idiots is no reason why we should be. A parcel of sheep jumping over a fence. One goes and the rest must follow. I never knew anything so utterly foolish. I don't know what the government is thinking of to let people run about recklessly and get up this scare." She sat tapping her slim fingers upon the arm of the big chair in which she was sitting. "If this keeps on," she continued, "I'll be ready to go to America; I would even consent to go to Spain till this racket is over. From what Katharine tells me it isn't a half bad place, and they have an English queen. Do go on Lillian; I am not talking to you; I am talking to Nancy."
Lillian, with a sidelong glance at Anita, went out, and as soon as the latter could escape she followed.
"Whew!" whistled Lillian, as Anita came up. "Isn't she is a pother? Poor old dear, she is like that. She will fight an idea to which she is opposed till she drops from exhaustion. After what your Perlitas said I should never have mentioned Aunt Betsy's prophecies; it was most unfortunate. I should have known better. She will hardly be safe to live with for the next twenty-four hours unless we can get her mind off on something which concerns some one in whom she is interested."
Anita gave a long sigh. "Do you know, I believe that pother, as you call it, that capacity for getting all wrought up must run in the family, for I used to be the most excitable child and I am afraid I led poor mamma a pretty dance many a time."
Lillian laughed. "Well, my child, you have a living example of what it means to allow that habit to grow on you. Take warning."
"Just what I am doing," returned Anita. "How differently you arrange flowers over here, such a number of little vases all over the place."
"How do you arrange them?"
"We generally have just one or two big vases or bowls with masses of flowers in them."
"How curious. There come the boys, Nita. I'll take these in and then we will go to meet them. They will like to hear of Aunt Bets and your two visitors. Bertie loves to have me tell him about Aunt Bets."
But although the boys laughed at the account of Aunt Bets and were amused at Lillian's imitations of American accent, at the last they looked grave when they were told that the Perley sisters had been advised to leave the country.
"Looks serious," remarked Bertie after a little time in which both he and Harry were plunged in thought. "I'm afraid it's coming, Hal."
Harry nodded gravely, but Lillian cried, "Don't be croakers, you two. Because two scary old women choose to run away in a fright, is no reason why you should cry 'Wolf! Wolf!'"
"But the wolf came at the last," Harry reminded her.
"And we hear that bookings are most difficult to get," Bertie told her. "There is a perfect scramble for them, and they are not all old women who are after them."
Lillian made no answer, but walked on ahead. "The post has come," she said over her shoulder. "I am going in to see what is in it."
She came back presently, finding Anita busy giving the boys their tea. "Your mother says she has a letter with important news in it," she told Anita. "I believe it is from Spain."
Leaving Lillian to look after the tea, Anita ran into the house to find her mother absorbed in her letters. "Listen to this, Anita," she said. "No, I will simply tell you. Pilar is dead."
"That Pilar? Well, I am afraid that doesn't grieve me very deeply."
"It is Prudencia who writes," Mrs. Beltrán went on, "and she tells me a strange thing. Your Uncle Marcos left no children, you remember."
"All his property went to his wife, I remember they told us."
"Yes, but she had use of it only for life. At her death it was to go to Prudencia's daughter and your father's son."
"Oh, mother! To Pepé?"
"To Pepé."
"The more need that we find him. Oh, what a strange thing!"
"Is it not? It seems then that this Uncle Marcos was not so unjust as would appear. He evidently desired to restore to his two brothers, through their descendants, the property which he had wrested from them by unworthy means, and so he salved his conscience. I suppose if he had known of your existence you might have come in for a share."
"Oh, never mind me. That does not make any difference, but it is a happy thing to know that poor Pepé, who slaved and toiled so incessantly was doing so for the profit of his own lands. He will be glad, oh, I know he will be glad. Is there no other news, mother?"
"Prudencia is gratified, of course, that Amparo is so fortunate. She begs that we will come to Spain if there should be trouble here."
"But we cannot go till there is no further hope of Pepé."
"You realize, dear, that if his death is proved you are his legal heir."
"Oh, no! Then pray God I may never be. Is there nothing from Mr. Kirkby?"
"Yes, a word to say that he is starting for London to-day in order to get in closer touch with those who are best informed on political matters, and also to learn from the detectives what progress they have made in their search for the boy. He has theories of his own, you know, and he likes to consult these people. He will return in a few days, he says."
"I hope he may have some good news. It seems dreadful to think that Pepé must be kept in ignorance of this piece of good fortune when it would mean so much to him."
Her mother sighed. It did seem a strange stroke of fortune to come at a time when the boy seemed utterly to have disappeared, yet somehow this piece of news gave both mother and daughter a spur to their belief in his return.
"I must write to Amparo, dear Amparo," said Anita. "You will help me with the letter, won't you, mother? I can do pretty well in conversation, after Barcelona, but writing a letter is something of a task. I wonder if Mr. Garriguez knows."
"I shall write and tell him. I will do it at once."
Leaving her mother to this duty Anita returned to the garden to find Tommy going through his daily drill and Harry deep in the columns of a newspaper. Anita established herself in a garden chair to watch the training of Tommy. Haddie came up pantingly with red tongue hanging, but seeing that Hotspur had already taken possession of Anita's lap he went off to curl himself up at Harry's feet. The afternoon sun shot long rays across the garden and laid golden lights upon Harry's sleek head, upon the white of Anita's frock, upon Lillian's tall figure standing above where Bertie was kneeling to put Tommy through his drill. The garden was bright with hollyhocks and midsummer's scarlets and yellows of flower kind. Rooks were cawing in the tall tree-tops. A peaceful English garden beloved and well tended. Anita's thoughts flew back to another garden across the seas. Did Ira still tend it? Who cared now for its roses? She sat thoughtfully stroking Hotspur's soft fur, and dreaming of those lost hours.
Presently Tibbie came out. "If you please, miss," she said, "Mrs. Teaness is within."
"And is Miss Teaness there, too?" asked Anita.
"Both the young ladies are with their mother, miss, thank you."
Anita put down Hotspur, who stretched himself lazily and sat blinking in an offended manner as if much put upon by this sudden awakening. "The Teanesses are here, Lillian," Anita called.
"Oh, bother!" cried Lillian, "I'll come in a minute, Nita; you go in and say I'm coming."
Harry threw down his paper. "Did I hear that Elly Fantine is here? I must go in, too. I adore her."
"She is a dear, really she is," responded Anita, somewhat severely.
"There is so much of her to be dear," returned Harry, "so of course she should always be called dearest. Her mother is a duck, I will admit, and they do have jolly times at The Beeches. Did you ever see Elly Fan play tennis? You haven't? Then you have something to live for."
"Do you call her Elly Fan to her face?" asked Anita.
"Oh, dear, no! I call her Miss Eleanor most respectfully."
The Teanesses were old friends of Mrs. Manning as well as of her niece, who, when she was Katharine Drayton had gone to school with Mrs. Teaness, then Eleanor Fox. The old friendship had been renewed and frequent were the invitations to The Beeches. It was to invite the girls over to a small garden party that the Teanesses had now come. Eleanor, the elder of the two girls, would have been really pretty but for her all too ample proportions. She had a lovely complexion, a sweet mouth and the sunniest expression. Even though her friends made fun of her they liked her. Alicia, the younger sister, was a quiet, rather nondescript young person, a little shy, but, as Mr. Kirkby said, a good listener. Harry Warren always made a point of carrying on a most obvious and nonsensical flirtation with Eleanor, who understood him perfectly and laughed at everything he said.
"We were so afraid we should miss you," said Eleanor, as Anita came in with Harry.
"How dear of you to say that," cried Harry.
"I didn't mean you, silly," responded Eleanor. "Anita, dear, we do hope you and Lillian can come over to our little garden party on Monday. Not much of an affair, but these days when everyone is so anxious and looks so solemn we do want to try to do cheerful things."
"I'm sure we shall love to come," Anita assured her.
"Do I come, too?" inquired Harry with mock anxiety.
"Oh, of course, and Bertie, too. I suppose he is here."
"He and Lillian are coming," Anita assured her. "They are just putting Tommy through his last stunt. Did you walk over, Eleanor?"
"No, Alicia drove us over in the car. She declares that she wants to get all the practice she can, for if there is war she means to offer her services to run a car."
"Alicia does? I can scarce believe it of her."
"She is a quiet body, but when it comes to things like that you've no idea of how daring she is."
Here Lillian and Bertie came in, and the matter of the garden party was again discussed; then the visitors declared they had come over merely for a moment's call and must be getting back. They offered to take Bertie and Harry in with them so far as they should be going and were off with Alicia at the wheel.
The garden party took place as planned, but it was the last affair of the kind for many a day to come, for louder and louder grew the mutterings of war, and finally it was upon them. Even when it was an actual fact, Mrs. Manning refused to believe that it could be really serious, that it would last. She was rather sarcastic when Lillian, white and shaken, announced that Bertie was leaving to go into training; that he and Harry were going in together, and she wondered if they would be called to the front very soon.
"Probably never," responded her grandmother. "This isn't going to last. Don't get into heroics, Lillian. Of course Bertie is like all young men, likes to parade around and be somebody, likes to talk big, as all boys do. Don't you worry about those boys; probably they will never get so much as a smell of gunpowder."
But as time went on she said less and less about this going to the front, was very tender with Lillian, very vehement in her vituperations against the Germans, and finally swung over altogether; was for turning the cottage into a hospital and spent all her time in knitting for the soldiers. News from the front was paramount to any other, and the search for Pepé, important as it still was to his mother and sister, sank into a matter of insignificance compared to this other great issue.
Across Anita's mind flitted once in a while the remembrance of her aforetime lover. Had he returned to America? What was he doing? The chance of a meeting appeared further off than ever, and she thought oftener of Bertie and Harry, for whom they were all preparing kits, than of Terrence Wirt. Her mother was casting about in her mind to discover the best use she could make of her own knowledge of nursing. She and Anita went up to London with Mr. Kirkby to inquire into matters there. It was a curious experience for the girl and one she was not likely to forget. The darkened city gave her the impression of something mediæval, something she had read about, yet there was still much to see, much to learn.
One day when she was getting into a 'bus with Mr. Kirkby she caught sight of two men getting into another 'bus. "Oh," she exclaimed, looking back, "I do believe that is Donald Abercrombie and his uncle. I felt sure we should come across them again some day. Dear me, but that does take me back to those days in Spain."
"Abercrombie, Abercrombie," repeated Mr. Kirkby. "What Abercrombie?"
"I don't know where they are from, but I believe the uncle is named Bruce." Then she told of their interest in the two, an account to which Mr. Kirkby listened with interest.
"I know some Abercrombies myself," he told her. "I must look them up. Perhaps this boy belongs to the same family." Then the subject was dropped and they began to speak of Pepé. Investigations in his direction had not been very energetic of late, Mr. Kirkby confessed. There was so much else. Everyone was on the watch for German spies, but he meant to prod up the laggards and perhaps there would be news. Indeed there might be any day.
It was while they were waiting in London that word came from Mrs. Manning which hurried them back to Sussex. "Don't waste your time up there," she wrote, "when you are needed here. Mrs. Teaness is opening her house as a home for convalescent soldiers. She has two or three already and more coming. She wants you to help—says you promised."
"That is a relief," declared Mrs. Beltrán. "I do want to be of use, but the exactly right thing does not seem to offer here without delay and red tape. This means immediate need."
"I am glad," Anita said. "I would like to help, too, and perhaps I can in some way. London is so dreary and I dreaded having you go away from me. I couldn't bear the idea of your being up here alone, yet what was there I could do?"
"I should have sent you back to Aunt Manning," Mrs. Beltrán assured her.
"Oh, no, I should have stayed, so as to be near you, but this way is much the best."
So back they went to Aunt Manning's satisfaction and Lillian's joy. "They have turned the whole house into a hospital, there at The Beeches," Lillian informed them. "Mrs. Teaness and the girls all sleep in one room and they have put up cots for the servants in the garage."
"And what are the girls doing?"
"Oh, all sorts of things. There is a lot to do, of course. What they need most is a skilled nurse who can take the supervision of things and direct the others. That is what Cousin Katharine can do. We are helping out by sending broths and things like that for the poor fellows. Either Tibbie or I go over every day, and sometimes I stay and help. It is not a regular hospital, of course, but a refuge for those who are getting better, whose hurts need time for healing and who are over the worst of it."
Mrs. Beltrán went to her post the next morning, and found occupation enough to keep busy both head and hands. Life went on upon a very different plane for them all. Instead of happy, care-free summer days, were these sober ones filled with heartache for those whose sufferings they were trying to mitigate. The Tommy Atkins upon whom their attention was fixed was not the little Airedale, but the true Tommy whose training meant a far more serious thing. Once in a while the dog Tommy would bring his stick to Lillian and look up into her face with wistful eyes as if to say, "What is the matter? Is my education finished?" Then Lillian would hug him to her, and hide her wet eyes in his warm coat. Haddie, however, was as lordly as ever and missed no one so long as he had the "mistus" and his bits from her plate. And so the summer passed into autumn, and autumn was bringing more appalling reports for those who watched and waited, while fiercer and fiercer grew the conflict.