A FRUITLESS SEARCH
At the bank they were faced by the fact that Señor Garriguez was out
of town. He was in Madrid, would not return for a week. Mrs. Beltrán
withheld her letter of introduction and went out with a preoccupied
look upon her face. Anita, by her side, cast furtive glances at the
thoughtful face. She felt that they had suddenly come up against a
stone wall. Finally her mother broke the silence by saying: "After all,
I don't know that he could have done any good, except to make us known
to the heads of certain factories. We shall have to conduct our search
alone."
"But how will you know where to go?"
"I shall take the telephone directory, make a list of the largest
factories first; anyone can tell us which are the most important ones,
the ones which are liable to employ the largest number of operatives,
and those we will go to first. It may take a long time, but we shall
have the satisfaction of knowing that we are doing it thoroughly."
Anita sighed. Her dreams of a speedy reunion with her brother resolved
themselves into a vista of unsuccessful visits to uninteresting
factories. She looked toward the towering chimneys of the huge
factories in the city's outskirts, and wondered if, after all, they
should find Pepé among the toilers in those busy hives. They went
soberly back to their boarding house and spent the afternoon in making
a list which they could begin to use the next day.
Then began a long and dreary round of visits, difficult in most
instances, since it was not always possible to understand the rough
Catalan dialect, and many times there was a sad want of courtesy in
their reception. Pepé Beltrán? Who knew anything about Pepé Beltrán?
Yet oftener a respectful ear was lent to their questionings, promises
were made to examine the pay rolls, and they would go away feeling a
little more encouraged. Yet at the end of a week Mrs. Beltrán decided
that without some manner of introduction they were not to expect any
great attention, so back they went to hunt up Señor Garriguez. With
this urbane and polite gentleman to advise matters soon assumed a
different aspect.
"I am grieved, dear ladies," he said, "that you should have endured
incivilities which must have been shown you many times. I regret my
absence at a time when I could have been of service to you. Pray allow
me to take this matter into my own hands. Where is your list? Let me
see?"
Mrs. Beltrán handed over the little book in which she had written the
addresses. He ran his eye over them. "Ay, ay," he said as he laid it
down. "It is a _desgracia_, a _tristeza_ that you should have this
errand. I shall assist you, yes, señora and señorita, I shall do all
in my power to assist. You make perhaps two or three calls at different
ones of these establishments. You weary yourselves; you accomplish
nothing. The persons you see do not know you, do not understand,
perhaps, are not interested. It is to small purpose that you weary
yourselves in this manner. I propose that you drop the whole thing."
"Oh, but----" Mrs. Beltrán half rose from her chair.
"_Paciencia, paciencia_," said Señor Garriguez, lifting a slim brown
hand. "I propose this: that you allow me to conduct the search in this
way. I will each day call up some of these places; it is a matter of
business I say. I wish to trace this Pepé Beltrán. We are a bank. They
will respond in a business-like way. They will search their files. I
will receive from you your address and at the moment I am in possession
of any information I will telephone you. How is this? Better, yes?"
"Oh, señor," returned Mrs. Beltrán brokenly. "I cannot express my
thanks. It will relieve us of so much, yet I fear it will be too great
a tax upon the time of a busy man."
Over his rather grave face broke a delightful smile. "It is not on
me comes the tax. I but instruct one of our clerks; he will report.
I go myself to the telephone if there seems encouragement. You see,
therefore it is not a tax, and if we get a fortunate result, I am
happy." He bowed courteously.
"Oh, señor," Anita looked up with alluringly grateful eyes. "You do not
know what a relief this is. I did hate going day after day to those
factories."
He smiled again. "Do so no more, little one. Enjoy yourself. See our
handsome city. Go about, seek amusement and leave the rest to me.
Consider me as the friend who is happy to serve you. If there are other
matters of business, of uncertainty in which I can advise, do not
hesitate to call upon me. I am at your service."
So, comforted and reassured, they went out into the bright sunshine and
back to their room at Gracia.
"Did you ever know such a dear?" said Anita when they were on their
way. "Mother, I think Spaniards are wonderful. Señor Garriguez made me
feel that troubles were rolling off us like water over a waterfall.
I feel so free, and it will be so lovely to just be free to enjoy
ourselves. Isn't it the greatest relief?"
"It is indeed."
"And weren't you glad to find that Señor Garriguez was so ready to be
friendly? Did you expect it?"
"My friend who gave me the letter did not tell me that we should find
him so charming, but was, however, most urgent that I should present my
letter. 'He will be of use to you; he will be of use,' said Carlotta.
She is his cousin, you know, and is married to an American. I nursed
her through a severe illness and we became fast friends."
"You make friends everywhere, mother dear," responded Anita and then
they were back in the white house with its little garden.
They settled down cheerfully, determining to make the most of their
opportunities of seeing the city and relying upon the banker to furnish
them with such information as could be gathered. They explored the
old streets, they visited the churches, they took excursions into the
surrounding country, and between times cultivated the acquaintance of
their fellow boarders. They spent long afternoons upon their sunny
balcony, where they read or wrote or did fancy work. Sometimes there
would be an afternoon _merienda_ in the garden in company with Miss
Ralston, the art student, the two "Perlitas," as Anita called them,
with occasionally an addition in the person of the Spanish youth and
on rarer occasion the Russian. They watched their neighbors in idle
moments, commenting on this or that one and becoming acquainted with
them through surmises.
Across the street, a door or two farther down stood a house similar
to the one in which they were located. From one of the upper rooms
frequently floated the strains of a violin. Sometimes it seemed that
two were playing in concert. When the weather was mild and the windows
were open it was possible to distinguish what was played. Anita was
rather curious about the performers.
"They play well," she said one afternoon, after having listened to a
spirited duet. "I wonder if they are professionals. I hear scales and
exercises first thing in the morning, and late in the afternoon we
generally have the two violins going together. I am going to watch." A
day or two later she was rewarded by seeing an elderly man come down
the steps with a violin case tucked under his arm. He stood outside
waiting for a few moments, then he looked up toward the window from
which the music issued. "Come along, Don," he cried, "we'll be late."
A young man's head was thrust from the window. "Coming, Uncle Bruce,"
came the response, and in another moment a slender youth, also carrying
a violin case, joined the other man. They went off down the street
together, talking animatedly.
"English," exclaimed Mrs. Beltrán, who had been watching with scarcely
less interest than Anita. "Somehow I am glad of that. It gives me a
home feeling. I like the looks of that lad, he was so like those we see
at home. He reminded me of my young boy cousins."
"I wonder who they are," said Anita still looking after the retreating
figures. "Perhaps Doña Carmen will know." She sought out their plump
little hostess who had little information to give.
"They are Ingleses, señorita," she said. "So I have been told. No, they
do not live there altogether. They come sometimes only. The uncle has
business which brings him once or twice a year, maybe oftener. They
remain two or three weeks, sometimes a month. I do not think they are
professional musicians. No, I do not know the name. It is something
English, something unpronounceable. Doña Dolores calls them always the
Ingleses."
Anita went back to her mother with this information, and from that
afternoon they watched each day for the appearance of the two
violinists. The young man always strode along with his head in the air.
He was broad-shouldered, free of motion, athletic. "Like our boys at
home who live out of doors," remarked Mrs. Beltrán. "I'd like to know
him."
"I like the uncle's looks, too," returned Anita. "He has such a
humorous face, and such kind eyes. I met him one day face to face. He
dresses like an Englishman but he looks like an American. I wonder if
they could be Americans."
"Oh, no, I hardly think so," Mrs. Beltrán replied. "They would scarcely
be here so often if they were, and the boy is so like an English lad
with that waving brown hair and that fair skin."
This special conversation was interrupted by a message from Miss
Harriet Perley. Wouldn't they come down into the garden and have tea?
Mr. Ivanovitch was going to show them how they drank tea in Russia.
So down they went into the little garden where a table was spread.
Miss Ralston was there in an æsthetically colored, flimsy, and rather
soiled tea gown. The Misses Perley, Miss Harriet and Miss Agatha, were
attired in girlish costumes which admitted of a fine display of lace
collars, clinking chains and ornate rings. They were both giggling with
excitement, their voices, already tremulous with age, betokening the
place of their birth. They gave a sharp accent to every other word, and
both talked at once. Mr. Ivanovitch presided at the samovar. He had
provided the feast of fruit, cakes and preserved strawberries. This
last, he told them, they were to take in their tea. While they were
watching operations they were joined by the student, Manuel Machorro,
who seated himself in close proximity to Miss Ralston's æsthetic
skirts, yet cast languishing glances across the table at Anita. The
ladies received their tea in cups, the men in glasses. Each was
directed to try the combination of preserves in tea. The young Russian
dropped his sinister expression for the moment and seemed quite human,
Anita whispered to her mother. Don Manuel hummed Spanish love songs,
breaking out once in a while with some ardent line.
It was a pleasant little party and all came to be on more friendly
footing because of it. Anita, interested in the Spanish songs, asked
if Don Manuel played guitar or mandolin. He played both and upon
persuasion went into the house to get his mandolin.
He sat down upon a stone bench opposite Anita on his return, and
directed his song to her. It was something about a white dove and a
clavel and all that.
Anita was charmed. "Does one ever hear a serenade nowadays?" she asked.
Don Manuel fixed his dark eyes upon her while he strummed softly. "One
does not often, but one can," he told her. "It is a beautiful custom,
not so, señorita?"
"It is, yes, it is very beautiful. I should like above all things to
hear a serenade," she admitted. Don Manuel changed the air he was
playing to a more seductive strain, and still bent his gaze upon Anita.
Miss Ralston moved uneasily and leaned her elbows on the table so as to
intercept Don Manuel's view of the younger girl. She did not like the
laurels snatched from her brows, the brows of the one and only American
of the household, for the Misses Perley proclaimed themselves purely
cosmopolitan because of a residence abroad of seven years. Just now
they were engaged in a conversation upon laces with Mrs. Beltrán. Did
she know good laces? Would she give her opinion upon some they had
just bought? They were making a collection. So far they had found the
best in Antwerp. They had been cheated in Venice, but they had found a
little shop in Antwerp, a little shop near the cathedral, and so on.
Anita was not listening to this chatter carried on in the staccato
tones of Miss Harriet and Miss Agatha. She was rather amused at Miss
Ralston's attitude, who, with arms stretched across the table, was
twirling a flower in her long fingers. She was rather fluent in speech,
both English and Spanish, but Mrs. Beltrán declared her superficial,
and Anita suspected her of being a poseur, yet she kept the ball
rolling at table and always made one aware of her presence by some
trick of dress or conversation.
Presently she tossed her flower to Don Manuel, hitting him squarely on
the hand which was vibrating the strings of his mandolin. "A bouquet
for you, señor," she said mockingly. "Give us something stirring,
something to dance by."
Don Manuel immediately turned to her as he picked up the flower and
stuck it in his buttonhole. "You will dance, señorita?" he asked.
"Do you want me to?" she returned, looking at him from under half
closed lids.
"_Si, señorita_," he replied, his fingers quickening the measure of his
music.
"Wait; I will get my castanets," said Miss Ralston. She swept
sinuously from the patio and came back instantly, scarf wound around
her lithe figure and the castanets clattering between her fingers.
She said a few words in an undertone to Don Manuel, then stood erect,
gave two or three quick stamps with her slippered feet and whirled off
into a dance unlike any Anita had seen. It expressed grace, passion,
abandon, reserve; invitation, dismissal, anger, surrender. Languorous
undulations were followed by quick whirlings, stampings of the feet by
swaying grace, the snap of the castanets accenting the music of the
mandolin all the while. Finally the dance ended with a sudden quick
click of the castanets and a wonderful pose with arms aloft.
"Bravo! Bravo!" cried Don Manuel laying aside his mandolin to applaud.
The others clapped vigorously, Mr. Ivanovitch loudest of all, and Miss
Ralston breathing hard, looked around with the air of one victorious.
"It is wonderful," cried Anita. "I should love to dance like that. I
wish you would teach me, Miss Ralston. Where did you learn to dance so
wonderfully?"
Miss Ralston laughed, and gave Don Manuel a little side glance. "Where
did I learn? In Spain," she answered and went off with her castanets.
Don Manuel came over to where Anita was sitting. "If you wish to
learn, señorita," he said in a low voice, "I myself, will teach you."
"I can dance the _jota_ a little," Anita confided to him, "but I should
like to learn some other dances. Madre, may I learn? Señor Machorro
says he will teach me this dance of Miss Ralston's."
"I think I would begin with something simpler," said Mrs. Beltrán,
after a pause. "This seems rather complicated to me."
"I must get castanets and a tambourine," said Anita, turning to Don
Manuel. "I shall have to learn first to use the castanets."
"And I shall be the first to teach you, to my great happiness,"
returned Don Manuel.
This was the beginning of what might be termed the stormy season for
Anita. Don Manuel began a series of attentions such as in the old
days Anita had dreamed of, but which, strange to say, now failed in
their appeal. The night after the Russian tea she was awakened by
music under her window. She threw a cloak around her and stole out
on the balcony to see a shrouded figure standing there in the garden
singing an emotional love song to the strains of a guitar. A serenade!
What must one do when one is so complimented? She was uncertain. Must
she recognize it or not? There was something sweetly mysterious and
romantic in this nocturnal music. In Spain, the land of romance. A
cavalier in picturesque cloak singing. It was like a dream, a poem.
She thought at first that she would waken her mother, and then the
sensation of experiencing this alone appealed to her strongly and she
stood in the shadows listening. Presently a window on the floor above
was raised and she saw a white flower descend to fall at the feet of
the singer. He looked up and she saw that, as she suspected, it was Don
Manuel. "It was Miss Ralston, of course," Anita murmured to herself.
"Perhaps after all he is serenading her and not me. She danced for him.
I think now she danced for him alone, and I believe he taught her that
dance, that dance which madre does not wish me to learn. Well, I shall
go in, for I don't want to take to myself a serenade which belongs to
another." She felt quite put upon. The romance was taken out of it. She
no longer thought it romantic, and thought only that she was chilly and
that she would be more comfortable in bed. So back she crept and shut
her ears to the twanging of the guitar and the manly tones.
[Illustration: IT WAS LIKE A DREAM, A POEM]
The next day, however, Don Manuel waylaid her on the stairs. "Was it
you, you who gave this?" he asked, drawing from his pocket a white
flower, rather the worse for wear.
Anita shook her head. "Not I? Where did you get it, señor?"
"I thought it came from heaven, from an angel," he replied. "Did you
not hear, last night under your window?"
"I heard music, if that is what you mean, but I thought it was for Miss
Ralston, who has the room above ours."
"Ah, señorita, could you not discern within your heart for whom it was
meant? Alas, I have been treasuring all day the hope that this was your
response." He held out the flower and gave it a look which should have
withered it if it had not already reached that stage. "It is worthless
now," he said, with a sweeping gesture tossing the poor flower out of
the window.
Not knowing exactly what response to make, Anita continued her way
upstairs, saying to herself, "So it was for me after all. I wish I
had stayed to the end." She did not take the matter very seriously,
however, yet felt a little chagrined that she had missed the full
enjoyment. She told her mother about it and they laughed over the
fiasco. "It made it like one of these ridiculous situations one
sometimes sees on the stage," declared Anita, "one of those mix-ups
when everything goes at cross purposes. Fortunately nobody was hurt. Of
course Don Manuel merely wanted to pay me a pretty attention. Very nice
and polite of him."
But as the days went on, the serenade was repeated, rapturous verses
appeared mysteriously under her door, fervid whispers came up to her
from beneath the balcony, flowers were tossed in at the window. "I
feel as if I were a mediæval princess," laughed the girl as she opened
one of the missives. "You will have to help me translate this, madre;
it is something about 'thinking only of thee.' I hope the Spanish
cavalier will not come some night on an Arab steed and carry me off to
the mountains in the moonlight."
"You don't seem to be particularly impressed," said her mother,
laughing. "It seems to me that I remember a young person who ardently
longed for this sort of thing, who thought no true love could be
expressed in any other way."
Anita dropped the verses from her hold. "I wonder how long it usually
takes for one to find out her depths of foolishness," she said. "One
good, honest, true word from dear old Terry would be worth more to me
than all this philandering, but that is gone, mother, gone forever, and
this froth is what I have in its place. I suppose it serves me right,
for I imagined froth was what I wanted because of its pretty bubbles."
She tore the poem into fragments, then sat in silence by the window for
a long time, looking out but seeing nothing of that which was before
her. Instead arose a box-bordered path, a house with tall columns, a
view of distant hills. She heard the cheerful laughter of Parthy and
Ira, chuckling over some negro wit; she smelt the sweet old-fashioned
roses; she listened to a voice which said: "But I do so want to make
you happy. It is my dearest wish to do so." She left her seat and went
over to kneel by her mother. "It has been so long," she said, "so long
and I want him more than ever. Why cannot Heaven make us wise in time?"
"Ah, dear, ah, dear," her mother answered, "that is Heaven's secret.
Some day we may know why. I, too, have wondered, as you are wondering
now, but I believe that somewhere there is an answer."
The bells of evening rang a solemn angelus from a church near by. A
sudden shaft of light shot across the room from the setting sun. Some
one knocked at the door. "You are wanted at the telephone, señora,"
said a voice.