CHAPTER XX
Mr. Kirkby carried Pepé off to the rectory where he insisted he should remain as long as he stayed in England. "You shall see the boy every day," he promised Anita and her mother, "but I want him myself some of the time. You won't refuse me that, Katharine."
"After all you have done, all that we owe you, is there anything we could refuse you?" said Mrs. Beltrán. "Such a wonderful friend as you have always been, Ernest. I don't feel as if I had words to express my gratitude to you for your supreme goodness to me now and always."
"Tut, tut, tut," cried Mr. Kirkby, taking her hands in his. "You know, my dear Katharine, that nothing in the world has brought me such exalted happiness as the fact that partly through my efforts your boy is restored to you. As for the other things, well, they have given me happiness, too, so please say no more about that."
"I do believe you are the best man in the world, Ernest Kirkby," said Mrs. Beltrán with tears in her eyes. "I hope some day we, my children and I, can do something for you."
"You are doing something every minute, and you are doing a big thing to let me have the boy."
"Then I shall not say another word about his remaining with you, Aunt Manning to the contrary notwithstanding."
"Aunt Manning wants too much," replied Mr. Kirkby, and went off laughing.
Boxes for the lads in the trenches had been prepared and sent off, Lillian taking especial interest in the preparation. So far neither Bertie nor Harry had been in an engagement. They wrote cheerfully and in detail, but who knew what day might come direful news. Everyone in the household contributed to these Christmas boxes, even the dogs and Hotspur, for Lillian wrote letters, very characteristic ones indeed, purporting to come from each of the little creatures, and they were signed with the impress of a damp paw. "Hims autodas," Lillian said of Tommy's. A packet of snap-shots went along with the other things, one of Pepé being included. Another box went from The Beeches, a touching little note for Harry, slipped in by Eleanor, made him thoughtful and rather unhappy.
Reviewing past years, explaining situations, getting acquainted, gave occasion for many long talks with Pepé. When his mother was not absorbing him Anita was, until Aunt Manning testily declared that they were too selfish for words. Did they think she had no rights at all? At her age to be set aside in this way was ridiculous. Her inclination was to coddle him, to lavish everything possible upon him, to make a matter of great importance his likes and dislikes. She could not forget the hardships of his boyhood and wanted to do her part in making up for it.
"This Aunt Manning," said Pepé to his sister, one day when she had been solicitous beyond the usual, "she has, what is it? She has a very large bark, but the bite is of no consequence."
"She has no bite at all," responded Anita, "it is at the most a mere harmless nibble."
Pepé's English was usually quite correct, but he twisted his expressions sometimes and pronounced words a trifle peculiarly. He was quiet and unassuming, but keen and active mentally. He had taken in knowledge in gulps, and having a retentive memory had acquired more than many a young person having greater advantages. This thirst for information delighted Mr. Kirkby, who added to Mr. Abercrombie's training a supplementary course under which Pepé advanced by leaps and bounds. His devotion to his mother was pathetic. The stunted affections of his childhood once started grew rapidly. It seems as if he could never make up to his mother for those years of hard suspicion. With Anita he was somewhat less confidential. She was a new element, one who had not been reckoned for, yet day by day their affection for each other increased and under Anita's exuberance and her expressions of pleasure in him he expanded visibly.
"You are a dear," Anita said to him one day, "I always hoped you would be, but I used to have terrible fears about you."
"How else?" said Pepé. "You knew of me only as a workman, a poor laborer, a factory hand. I am not surprised at that. Yet all the time I wished not to be as I was. I wished to be a gentleman. I wished for books, for music, for those things which one cannot gain by working only in a field. I do not despise this at all, but it is not what I longed for."
"It is like a fairy tale," declared Anita. "Pepé, there is one thing I wish you would tell me. I hope I am not too curious, but that day when we saw you in the cathedral, you remember that we told you how we even touched you in passing, were you praying for—for us?"
Pepé smiled and took her hand. "I was; at least I was praying Our Lady to give me mother-love. I who had never known a mother, desired this sort of affection. I felt the need of it. The dear and good Abercrombie, yes, he was like a father, but at times there comes a wish for such comfort as only a mother can give."
Anita laid her cheek against his hand. "That prayer was answered, Pepé, and you have a sister's love, too. I loved you as soon as I knew of you, and I pictured you to myself, not very clearly, to be sure, but still you looked somewhat as you do, and always when I saw him whom I called Donald, I thought of you, and said to myself: he will look much the same. Once or twice I had a sudden belief that he might be you, but I put it away. There has been much confusion of names. Those things come in waves, I suppose. I was Nancy Loomis and am now Anita Beltrán. You whom we called Donald Abercrombie have become our own Pepé Beltrán." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "You do love me a little bit, don't you, brother?" she said, wistfully. "You are getting used to me?"
He put her hand to his lips. "I love you very much. Every day I awake and say: I am so rich. I have a mother and a sister whom I love."
"We can do many things together," Anita went on. "We shall do our music together, you with your violin; I with the piano, and we can dance. Do you know thejota? Of course you do. Oh, Pepé, I remember that I promised to do some Spanish dances at The Beeches to entertain those poor soldiers. Will you come, too? With your violin? We can dance thejotatogether and some other things. I have some music. I must hunt it up and take it over for Eleanor to practice. She can do that sort of thing very well. Will you do it?"
"I will do so very gladly. I have not been one to dance very often, but one who lives in Spain cannot help but know the dances. All Spain knows how to dance."
"I have analdeanacostume which I have made. I wish you had one, too. Perhaps we can get up one in time. Mother will help. She will like to. We will see about it at once. And your music, it will add so much, will give so much pleasure. There is Mr. Kirkby tooting his horn to let you know he has come. He is rather early it seems to me."
"We go to Chichester, to the old lady who has the post-cards. Mr. Kirkby wishes that she see me. He has told her of the part her post-cards have played in this drama."
"Of course then she wishes to meet you again. Run up and say good-bye to mother and Auntie while I keep Mr. Kirkby quiet."
She ran out to where the car was standing. "What news, your riverince?" she asked.
"Good news," he replied. "Our friend Terrence Wirt is promised his release from the hospital in time for him to spend Christmas with us."
"That is good news," responded Anita, catching her breath. "His eyes, what about his eyes?"
"One is quite right; the other has a bit clipped out of the sight, so it will be of little use to him, but to see at all, and he certainly does, that is great, isn't it?"
"It is great, indeed. When do you think he will be here?"
"By Christmas Eve, he says. The doctors think he would better get to some sunnier climate for the rest of the winter, for he needs to be out of doors. Where's that boy?"
"He is coming. He just went up to say good-bye to mother. It is very harrowing, this daily separation," she laughed. "Between mother and Aunt Manning, I am afraid he will get so spoiled there will be no living with him."
"You're jealous, miss, that's what the matter."
"I'm not. Don't you dare to say such a thing. Imagine my being jealous of my brother whom I have longed for all this time," she said indignantly, and Mr. Kirkby laughed.
"Nice lad, nice lad," he said, "so is young Wirt. There are a number of good people left in the world, my child."
"I don't need to be told that when I see one of the very best before me," she retorted.
"Coals of fire! Coals of fire!" he cried, lifting his hands. "Here comes the boy. Will you go along, too, to Chichester? We are going to call on Aunt Bets."
"No, thank you. I promised to go over to The Beeches with Lillian."
She waited till the car had turned a corner and then went in to hunt up her mother. She found her busily and happily occupied in mending something of Pepé's. "He is coming, coming, do you hear, blessed mother? He is coming on Christmas Eve."
"Pepé is?" queried her mother, snipping off a thread. "Was there any question about it? I know Aunt Manning expects him to join us."
Anita went over and took her mother's head between her hands, kissing the top of it. "Oh, you precious thing, I acknowledge that Pepé is a most absorbing subject, but there are others, there are others. It is Terrence who is to come. You must ask Aunt Manning to have him here at once. He can see, mother, he can see. Mr. Kirkby has just told me. One eye is all right and the other is not absolutely lost to him."
"I am glad, very glad, daughter dear, for him and for you."
"And you will ask Aunt Manning? I must hunt up a piece of music to take over to Eleanor, ajotathat she will want to practice for Christmas Eve. Pepé and I will dance it together, and I must show her how to get the swing of it. Oh, mother, we must try to get up an Asturian costume for Pepé. He will look so well in one, and it will add so much to the dance." She began searching around in her trunk for the music which she presently found and laid aside, then she rose to her feet with a frock hung over her arm, a soft bluecrêpe de chine. She carried it to her mother. "Don't you think I might wear this when Terrence comes?" she asked. "I have worn sombre colors for so long, and my heart sings so, sings so that I want to do something to express my joy. I brought this with me because I could not bear to leave it behind. It is a little out of style, but not much so, because it is so simple. It is Terry's favorite of all my frocks."
Her mother smiled. "And so, you sentimental child, you brought it along and want him to see you in it when he meets you."
Anita smiled, too. "You looked right into my heart that time. I do want to wear it. Don't you see how he will recognize it and then will be sure that it is his Nancy."
"A nice dramatic situation. Very well. I see no reason why you should not wear it, for certainly you have worn sober colors long enough, and I, for one, shall be glad to see you in something more cheerful than grays and lavendars. Leave the dress here and I will look it over and see if it is in proper condition for you to wear on Christmas Eve."
"I should like to have a hat on when he first sees me," said Anita, thoughtfully, as she picked up the pieces of music she had selected, "then he would not be so much puzzled by my dark locks."
"I see. You want to appear before him as a vision of delight. Well, my child, there is no special objection to your planning out a dramatic scene, though, for my part, I think it would be better to have the meeting come about in a perfectly natural way. If you should happen to have a hat on well and good, but if there is no cause for wearing it at that particular moment I don't believe I would go to the length of putting one on for the occasion. It appears too theatrical to try for a sensation."
"You are right, as you always are," Anita acknowledged. "I should be really very full of humility and thankfulness instead of letting my imagination run away into such a groove. I will not wear even this frock if you think it would be best not to," which speech showed that Anita Beltrán had improved upon Nancy Loomis.
"I advise you to wear it by all means," her mother replied.
Anita gave a sigh of content and went off with the music, but at the door she turned back to say, "You won't forget to ask Aunt Manning. It is only a few days off, only a few days, do you realize? Oh, mother!" She dropped the pile of music on a chair and ran to give her mother a hug and kiss. "In spite of the war, and all that, we are happy, aren't we, mother? What wonderful things have been given to us. Together, you and Pepé and Terrence and I. We should be happy, shouldn't we?"
"My darling child, of course we should be. I never had your faith and hope, but it was all justified. Now run along, for I hear Lillian calling, and Tommy Atkins, too."
Anita sped away to find Lillian at the foot of the stairs with Tommy barking furiously, his way of calling when Lillian gave him the order.
"I saw Signor Verdi to-day," Lillian told her. As the little green lizard had been in retirement since cold weather began this was quite a piece of news, and Anita responded accordingly, adding "I have a bigger piece of news than that. I will tell you as we go along."
"It must be exciting, judging from your looks," replied Lillian.
"I've a right to be excited," returned Anita in joyous tones, and then she disclosed to her cousin the secret which she had kept from her all this time ending up with, "I made up my mind not to tell a soul until I knew about his eyes. Only mother has known and she advised me to tell no one else at first. I shall tell no one else but Pepé. Isn't it wonderful, Lillian?"
"It is very wonderful and I am so glad for you. It is strange that so much comes into some lives and into others nothing," she said sadly.
"Oh, but my dear, a great deal has come into yours, hasn't it?"
"Yes, of course, but my every moment now, sleeping and waking is filled with anxiety."
"I know what that means, for I have been anxious, too. It was so uncertain about Terry's eyes."
"And he is coming for Christmas, you say?"
"Yes, we expect him, and, Lillian, I am so bothered about that first moment of recognition. It would be so awkward if everyone should happen to be right there, and how in the world can I manage to see him alone for those first few moments?"
"If I see him coming before Granny does I will get her out of the way, into the greenhouse. She is always perfectly safe in there pottering over the plants."
"You are a dear. We will have to be on the watch."
Lillian laughed. "There is no fear but that you will be," she returned.
But as it happened neither one of the girls saw Terrence arrive, for he came in the morning when even the blue dress was a thing not suitable to be worn at that hour. Anita and her mother were busy in trying on the Asturian costume which they were making Pepé. Lillian was out with the dogs, and so it was Aunt Manning who received the visitor. She sent Tibbie up to say who had called and Anita was aghast. It was not turning out as she had planned, not at all.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "I cannot go down, and meet him before Aunt Manning, no, I cannot. You go, mother, and I will stay up here. I shall wait till I can see him alone; I shall have to do that."
So Mrs. Beltrán went down alone to find Aunt Manning fiercely demanding why the young man had not brought his bag. "But I am supposed to be staying at The Beeches," he argued.
"Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind," retorted Aunt Manning. "They have a houseful as it is and we haven't a single Christmas guest. Ernest Kirkby had to monopolize my nephew, Joseph, and cheated us out of his visit, and here you are backing out."
"But, my dear Mrs. Manning," replied the young man, "I didn't understand that you expected me to take up my headquarters here."
"Then the sooner you understand the better. Is anything the matter with this house that everyone wants to shun it?"
"My dear Mrs. Manning——" The young man tried to conciliate her. He had heard enough of her bristling manner from others not to be able to set a true value upon its unimportance.
Just here, however, Mrs. Beltrán appeared and Mrs. Manning went off to the telephone, to "have it out," as she expressed it, with Mrs. Teaness. In a few minutes she came back quite mollified. "It is quite right," she announced. "She understands. I will send Timpkins over for your bag and you will stay just where you are."
This, however, Terrence would not listen to, as he declared he must make his excuses in person and went off in spite of protests, promising to return in the afternoon.
Therefore, although the edge of her expectations was taken off a trifle, Anita was able to adhere to her decision of seeing her true love alone. Lillian managed to follow out her scheme of getting her grandmother into the greenhouse at the critical moment, and Anita, arrayed in the blue frock of precious memory, went down with beating heart into the drawing room where Tibbie had ushered the guest.
He was standing in front of the grate fire, his head thoughtfully bent when Anita reached the doorway. She stood a moment upon the threshold, her heart beating so furiously that she could not trust herself to speak. He was there, the same familiar form, the same beloved features. He looked older, paler, more thoughtful and grave. She dropped the curtain behind her and made a step forward. He looked up. An expression of wonder came over his face. He passed his hand over his eyes as if trying to brush away some illusion. Anita advanced a step or two but felt powerless to utter a word. Terrence looked at her fixedly from the crown of her dark head to her slippered feet. "Nancy," he breathed. "The same eyes, the same mouth, even the same blue dress. My Nancy. The Nancy that was once mine."
Anita moved swiftly forward holding out both hands and finding speech at last. "Terrence, Terrence," she cried, joyously. "It is your Nancy still; always your Nancy during all this time. Oh, Terrence, I was so silly ever to let you go."
He held her close, and, when Aunt Manning's voice broke in upon them, as she suddenly appeared with Lillian, they still stood with clasped hands.
Aunt Manning viewed them for a moment with severe disapproval, then she said, "Young man, why are you holding my niece's hand?"
"He had a right to hold my hand long before you ever saw me, Aunt Manning," retorted Anita, who, having come to her own, was ready with some of her old spirit.
"What's this? What's this?" queried Aunt Manning.
"I'll have to explain. There will be no use in trying to put it off," said Anita, with an adorable look at her lover. "You talk to Lillian."
But as Mrs. Beltrán appeared upon the scene Lillian thought best to follow her grandmother and Anita into the sitting-room. "I tried my best to keep her longer," she whispered to Anita, as they passed out, "but that old Tibbie had to come and let the cat out of the bag."