IN THE CATHEDRAL
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 the _caballero_, 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 of
_joven_ he 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 so
_caballero_. 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 the _sala_ or should he be brought up.
"I will go down," decided Mrs. Beltrán, "unless there are others in the
_sala_."
"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, were _paisanos_ who
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 so _caballero_.
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, very _alegro_, 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.