HELP FROM ENGLAND
The bridge of yesterday had doubled its span since Nancy Loomis passed
over it to become Anita Beltrán in Spain. Now Spain was left behind;
left behind, too, the kind and hospitable friends she had made there.
Even Barcelona, which she had not cared for at first, was hard to
leave. The little _pension_ had become a pleasantly familiar spot, and
those who still lingered there parted from them as if from old friends.
Doña Carmen loaded them down with blessings and bounties, the latter in
the form of _bizcochos_, fruit, _dulces_. The Perlitas, protesting that
nothing now would persuade them to remain a week longer, insisted upon
bestowing upon each a handsome lace mantilla, black for Mrs. Beltrán,
white for Anita. Don Manuel appeared that last morning with a huge
bunch of flowers and a box of that delectable sweet known as _turron_.
Even Miss Ralston, not conspicuous for generosity, presented a bad
sketch of a beautiful place, and good Mr. Garriguez was at the train
with tickets and instructions. Ladies travelling _sola_, he felt had
need of much counsel.
So off they went, taking the shortest route as far as Dieppe, where
they would embark for Newhaven and thus reach Sussex direct.
Leaving the balconied houses, the smoking factory chimneys and the
cathedral, dominating the city's highest point, they were borne
northward, and settled down to their hours of travel.
"Somehow," said Anita, catching a last glimpse of the cathedral towers,
"I shall always associate Santa Cruz with our English lad Donald
Abercrombie. Wouldn't it be queer, mother, if we were to run across him
and his uncle in England? One is continually doing that in travelling
about."
"I wish we might meet them," returned Mrs. Beltrán thoughtfully. "There
was something very attractive about that boy. I always felt that I
would like Pepé to look like him."
Anita gave her mother a quick glance. "That is strange," she said,
"for, do you know after we saw him kneeling there in the cathedral I
had a faint glimmer of hope that he might really be Pepé."
"What a fantastic idea. That is a time when your imagination ran away
with you, for we know his name is not Pepé, that it is Donald, that he
has an Uncle Bruce, and that they are English. We know that without
doubt."
"Oh, yes, of course I told myself it was absurd. We haven't by any
chance an Uncle Bruce, have we, madre?"
"No, indeed. You have no uncle at all. My dear young brother died when
I was still a little girl, and my baby sister I cannot remember, died
before that. I have an old aunt living and several cousins."
"I should like some girl cousins, some one like Amparo. I could become
very, very fond of Amparo. Have I any girl cousins, mother?"
"None very near, a second cousin at the most, the granddaughter of
the aunt I was speaking of. Let me see--she must be about your age, a
little older, maybe."
"I suppose we shall find it very shivery in England after our sunny
Spain," remarked Anita, a little regretfully.
"Spring in England is chilly," Mrs. Beltrán was obliged to confess,
"but we shall be in the south where it is much milder, and if we can
find comfortable lodgings with an open grate I think we shall do. We
should be able to find something at a moderate price now when it is out
of the season."
"It is going to be a long journey," sighed Anita.
"It is long, but we shall do it in less time than if we were to have
gone direct by sea, and certainly I did not relish the voyage over the
turbulent Bay of Biscay at this time of year."
A glimpse of France as they were whizzed along, a night and a day in
Paris, a few hours in quaint old Rouen, full of the spirit of Jeanne
d'Arc, a glimpse of Dieppe, a quiet night trip to Newhaven and there
were England and Sussex, with Chichester not too far away.
It was Chichester which called them, and for which town of heavenly
peace they immediately started. They found quiet lodgings in the
Southgate and settled down again, Anita curious, interested, excited;
her mother reminiscent, wistful, pensive.
"England in primrose time," murmured Mrs. Beltrán, looking out of their
window upon a garden gay with spring flowers. "All the banks and sunny
hillsides will be covered with them. We shall go out to gather them and
have bowlfuls upon our tables all the time while they last."
"What is the first thing we shall do?" inquired Anita, arranging her
Spanish books on the mantel.
"We shall begin to make inquiries for Pepé. I shall send for Ernest
Kirkby. He will know the clergy here. He will interest those who can
help us, and then I shall put an advertisement in the paper. Already I
have written to my Aunt Manning to tell her we were coming. No doubt
she will be here soon with her granddaughter, Lillian."
"Where do they live? Far from here?"
"No, they happen to be quite near, at a little place called Borton. We
have another cousin at Rye, somewhat farther off. Her name is Emily
Oliver. I think she has three children, a son and two daughters, one
quite a little girl, the other older. I have never seen them. Then
farther away still, in London, are other cousins, children of my
mother's brother whose name was Henry Fuller."
The next day appeared Lillian Manning. She had walked over from
Borton, meant to walk back and thought nothing of it. She was a
tall, fresh-colored, breezy girl with eyes of a true turquoise--not
sapphire--blue, fair hair, a humorous mouth and rather a large nose.
She brought her dogs with her, a Pommeranian and an Airedale, and
arrived quite early while Anita and her mother were still at breakfast.
She came into the little sitting-room bringing a breath of spring with
her, and greeted her cousins in a manner half boyish, ordering her
dogs to lie down and laying her whip across her knees when she seated
herself.
"I'm too early, aren't I?" she exclaimed. "But Granny was so anxious I
should come, and I wanted to see you myself, and ask you to come over
for tea this afternoon, so I started off before Granny was up."
"Without breakfast?" exclaimed Anita. "Do sit down and join us. We'll
send out for some hot toast."
"Oh, no, thanks. I had Tibby call me and she had everything ready.
It is a glorious morning for a walk. Granny sends her love, Cousin
Katharine, and wants to know if you can't come to-day. She cannot wait
to see you. She isn't quite up to so long a walk. Perhaps you're not
either." She gave a flick of her whip at the Airedale who showed signs
of restlessness. "Lie down, Tommy," she cried. "Are you up to it?" she
asked Anita.
"How far is it?"
"Oh, not over three miles as the crow flies, a little farther by the
road. Do you like Sussex? Do I say cousin, or simply Anita?"
"Anita, of course, although I am mighty glad to have found cousins."
"Maybe you'll not be when you know us," returned Lillian with a little
laugh. "We're very English, you know, very insular, especially Granny.
She is very eager to see you, but you look so Spanish I am afraid I
must warn you. She has rather a grudge against Spain."
"But why?"
"Principally on account of Philip the Second and Torquemada. She might
get over Philip, but Torquemada is too much for her. She will probably
go down to her grave filled with resentment against him for his part in
the Inquisition. She has strong prejudices, has Granny, and I warn you
she will hold you accountable."
"For what?" Anita set down her cup and looked puzzled.
"Oh, for all of that; Philip and the Inquisition, but she will be very
boastful of Drake when she speaks of the Armada. She will taunt you
with Drake."
"But all that happened so long ago, and what had I to do with it,
anyhow?"
"Nothing, of course, but that is Granny's way. I verily believe if she
knew a man named Adam she would accuse him of being partly responsible
for the fall of mankind, because he happened to be named after the
first Adam."
"Aunt Manning must be rather--rather peculiar," ventured Anita.
"She is rather, but she's an old dear for all that. It is only on
certain subjects that she goes galloping off, and Spain is one of them."
"But I am half English," Anita went on, "and Drake belongs to me, too."
"So he does. You will have to remind her of that. I don't believe she
will think of it unless you do. She is a person of one idea and ever
since she had Cousin Katharine's letter she has been piling up evidence
against Philip. You'd suppose she had a personal grievance against him,
but it is only that she would rather get into a good hot argument than
eat." Lillian laughed and showed her white, even teeth. Her mouth was
rather too large, and was only attractive when she laughed. "Well, we
must be getting back," she said as the others rose from the table.
"Aren't you going to stay and go with us?" inquired Anita.
"Why----" She hesitated and looked at Mrs. Beltrán.
"Do stay, Lillian. Stay and have lunch with us," urged Mrs. Beltrán,
"then we can all go together. I am not sure that I could find the way
to Primrose Cottage. Besides we want to see all we can of you while we
are in the neighborhood. Will your grandmother care if you stay?"
"Oh, dear, no; not she. You're sure you won't mind the dogs? They are
rather a nuisance sometimes."
"Speaking for myself, I'd love to have them around," Mrs. Beltrán
assured her. "They remind me of the old days and I am sure Anita will
like to have them."
"Indeed I shall," responded Anita. "Tell us their names, Lillian."
"The Pom is named Haddon Hall, Lord Haddon Hall, because he is so
lordly, but he has several nicknames; Nibs, is the favorite, for the
boys began calling him 'his nibs.' He was sent to me by a friend who
lives near Haddon Hall, and I generally call him Haddie, rather nice
name, we think; not too common. Tibbie calls him Addie, which is
disgracefully feminine for such a gentlemanly person. The other one,
I regret to say, has a bar sinister, is not quite pure breed, and he
realizes it, but he is a dear. His name is Tommy Atkins for he is
missus' ickle sojer boy. I'll show you how he can shoulder a gun and he
can hurrah for the king, too."
"I'd love to see him play soldier," cried Anita.
"You shall see. Come out and he shall show you his tricks." She
whistled to the dogs and they followed her to the garden where she put
Tommy through his paces. He sat up somewhat waveringly on his hind
legs and shouldered the stick his mistress brought. "He looks rather
a meek Tommy, doesn't he?" said Lillian, eyeing him critically. "Hims
mus' put more animation into 'spression," she chided. "Lively, Tommy,
lively, now!" And Tommy settled himself more firmly on his hind legs,
pricked up his ears and tried to look as if alertly enjoying himself.
"Good dog!" cried Anita.
"Hims was a brave sojer," said Lillian. "Hims mus' have lumps of sugar.
Will Cousin Anita get Tommy lumps of sugar?"
Anita ran into the house and came back well provided, so that Tommy
enjoyed an ample reward. Then Lillian, in rather a throaty, but not
unsweet voice, began singing "God Save the King," keeping time with the
stick, Tommy watching eagerly and at the last words joining in with
three sharp yelps. This performance demanded another lump of sugar and
Tommy was free to follow Haddie, whom he had been furtively watching as
he nosed about the flower beds.
"What can Haddie do?" inquired Anita, still interested.
"Oh, nothing specially. He is a gentleman, you see, and doesn't have to
earn his living. Tommy knows he is in the ranks and he drops his H's
like Tibbie, and always calls the cat 'Otspur, just as she does."
"You have a cat then?"
"Oh, yes, and a lizard. The cat is named Hotspur because he always
finds out the warmest places and because he purrs. The lizard has not
much personality. He lives in the greenhouse chiefly, but I like him.
He is green and is named Signor Verdi."
"I shall love to see them all," said Anita, well pleased with this
original sort of cousin, and beginning to feel that there were
interests here as well as in Spain.
"Have you been to the cathedral and have you seen the Market Cross and
the almshouses? But, of course, you have," said Lillian.
"But of course we haven't, for we came only yesterday," Anita told her.
"To be sure. I forgot that. You won't want to be getting on too fast
this morning if you walk to Borton this afternoon. Perhaps you will
be staying all night with us. That would be jolly, and we could do
something to-morrow. There is quite a bit that is interesting in
Sussex, at least we think so. Shall we do the cathedral this morning,
or not?"
"Oh, let us go by all means," decided Anita. "It is not far and we have
a particular interest in it because of my brother."
"Your brother? Oh, yes, tell me about him as we go along. I know it is
a most interesting tale. Granny said so, and she is quite excited over
it."
Anita and her mother went off to get their hats, leaving Lillian
playing with the dogs till they should be ready. This being but a
matter of a few moments they were on their way sooner than they had
looked to be, and took this occasion to tell of their experiences to a
most attentive listener.
"My word!" exclaimed Lillian, stopping short when they reached the
cathedral. "I can't go in till you have told me the rest. I never in
all my life met anyone who had gone through such marvelous experiences.
I might live forever in our little town and the most that would ever
happen would be a marriage or a garden party. It is a wildly exciting
event to go to London, and the height of felicity to spend a week at
Littlehampton in the summer. I must tell the boys about you. They'll
have you a heroine at once."
"Who are the boys?"
"Oh, the lads in our village and the country around, Reggie Ford,
Bertie Sargent, brothers of my girl friends. You'll see them."
Anita wondered if any of these might be a person of special interest to
Lillian. It was too early for confidences as yet, but she expected they
would come. She watched Lillian walking ahead with a swinging stride
and a set of shoulders like a boy, so unlike the very feminine girls
in Spain, Amparo, Rosario, Conchita and others she had met. There was
a breeziness about Lillian as if she spent much time out of doors, and
did athletic things. Anita imagined she must play tennis well, and
that she was a good comrade to boys, but there could be nothing of the
coquette about her, she fancied. She found her original, whimsical,
and not a little puzzling. It would not be at once that she revealed
herself to a stranger, even though that stranger be her cousin.
After Spain's gorgeously imposing cathedrals that of Chichester fell
short of Anita's expectations, though she confessed, after a time, that
it possessed a beauty and interest of its own, and that she could learn
to feel at home within its walls, a thing she could never do in Spain's
grander temples.
They were coming out when they encountered a portly, smiling,
pink-faced individual in clerical dress who seized upon Mrs. Beltrán
with an exclamation of pleasure. "Well, Katharine, here you are. They
told me I should probably find you here. And this is the daughter."
He took one of Anita's hands in both of his. "Doesn't look like you,
not a bit. Ah, Miss Lillian, I overlooked you, so busy with these new
arrivals, you see. How is the grandmother? Tell her I have a new proof
against her arguments on the war question, and that I am coming over to
have it out with her. Where were you all going? May I come along?"
And this it seemed was Ernest Kirkby. Such a different figure from that
which Anita had pictured to herself. That had been a pale, serious,
priestly person who spoke in melancholy tones and with a sanctimonious
expression. This confident, unabashed, agreeable individual was
quite outside any of her imaginings. He had come over immediately
upon receiving Mrs. Beltrán's note, he told them. He wanted to hear
the whole story at once. What was he to do? Was there anything to be
attended to on the spot?
"Suppose I go back to your lodgings with you, Katharine," he proposed,
"and let these young folks do their sightseeing together. You've seen
all there is of Chichester, saw it years ago. Come along and tell me
the whole story so there'll be no delay."
So off he set with Mrs. Beltrán, talking earnestly and leaving Anita to
Lillian's company.
"You know Mr. Kirkby very well, don't you?" inquired Anita as they
started off to view the Market Cross.
"Oh, dear, yes. We've known him all our lives. He was a great friend
of your grandmother, as well as of mine. He is a perfect old dear.
Everybody loves him. He has a darling house and a nice motherly
housekeeper. He has never married on account of his invalid sister they
say, but Granny hints at another reason."
Anita was silent, not caring to say that she had any knowledge of that
other reason. "He has come over," she said after a pause, "so that
mother can consult him about the best way to set investigation on
foot in order to find Pepé. Mother thinks that he can give her good
counsel."
"I believe he can. Everyone goes to Mr. Kirkby when they are in
trouble," Lillian told her.
"He is no longer a mere curate; he is rector of his church?"
"Oh, yes, and we are very proud that he is."
They wandered around the fine old town, viewing the lovely gardens,
fair in their spring blossoms, the sweeping lawns freshly green, the
stately old houses, the quaint and pretty St. Mary's Hospital. Of this
last Lillian said, "This we must visit some day, and take it all to
itself. I want you to see some one who lives there, as odd a character
as you can meet anywhere. We call her Aunt Betsy Potter, though
strictly speaking, she is not an aunt at all. However, I shall not tell
you about her, for now we must get back. It is lunch time and I am half
starved."
They reached the lodgings to find Mr. Kirkby gone some time before,
with half a dozen plans to carry through and numerous appointments to
meet, all made in behalf of Anita and her mother.