PRIMROSE COTTAGE
The walk to Borton was one Anita long remembered; along the Portsmouth
Road, on through the little villages, smiling and fair, then Borton.
When she was not walking with Lillian and chatting about dogs, flowers
or Great-aunt Manning, she was being entertained by Mr. Kirkby with
tales of Sussex, and for the first time realized how rich in history
was this county of her mother's birth. It was here, the good clergyman
told her, from one of these villages, that Harold rode on his mission
to the Duke of Normandy. One can see a representation of that event on
the Bayeux tapestry. It was in Sussex that King Canute had a palace,
and tradition has it that on this spot he defied the rising tide.
"Oh, there is much to learn about Sussex," the rector told her.
"It claims more than one literary celebrity, and can show you many
interesting pages of history."
"How well you know it," exclaimed Anita.
"There is scarce a spot which I have not visited. I have walked its
length and breadth, and know its most secluded corners. We shall have
to have some good walks, all of us. You will like to see Hastings and
Battle Abbey, the great castle at Arundel and you will like to go to
Brighton. We shall have to plan a lot of excursions this summer."
"But first we must find Pepé," declared Anita.
"Our finding him will not interfere with the excursions," replied Mr.
Kirkby with a smile. "By to-morrow we can find out whether or not he is
in Chichester. It does not take long to exhaust the possibilities of a
town of that size."
"And then what next?" inquired Anita.
"We shall advertise in several papers, London ones as well as others,
and if necessary get a detective at work."
"But won't that cost a great deal?" asked Anita anxiously.
The rector looked down at her with a fatherly smile. "That is something
you don't have to bother your little head about. Now, then, let's look
at that bank of primroses; it's as fine a one as I have seen. You've
come at a lovely time of year to old England, a time of poetry and
beauty. There is a fine flock of sheep over there. You know the May
Queen, of course: 'And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of
the lambs.' Do you remember? Tennyson had a country home at Blackdown,
you know, not so very far from where I live. You will like to go there
some day."
Anita looked off to where a flock of sheep whitened the green field
like a moving drift of soiled snow. She thought it a picturesque
sight. But suddenly her attention was arrested by the sight of a little
lamb tottering along on feeble legs and smeared with blood. "Look,
look," she cried, "something has torn that poor little lamb. Could it
be dogs? Don't the shepherds watch them more carefully than that?"
Mr. Kirkby looked in the direction she indicated, put on his glasses
and looked again, then burst into a hearty laugh. "She doesn't know our
sheep country, does she Lillian?" he said to the latter who had just
come up with Mrs. Beltrán. "Poor little lamb, it is dreadfully torn,
isn't it Lillian?"
Then Lillian laughed, too, and Anita began to think them exceedingly
heartless, but seeing her expression Mr. Kirkby patted her on the arm
and began to explain. "Don't waste your sympathies on the lamb, my
child," he said. "I will tell you what has happened. The lamb's mother
has died or has been killed, and to save the lamb they have given it
to another mother whose own lamb has died. She would not care for an
unfamiliar lambkin so they have stripped the dead lamb of its fleece
and fastened it upon the living lamb to make the mother sheep accept it
as her own."
"Oh!" Anita looked again. "Oh, how very queer and interesting. It is a
great country for sheep, isn't it?"
"A great one. You have heard of the South-down mutton, of course. Over
toward Lewes is the South-down country more particularly. We shall
have to take you over there, but you may eat some of the mutton almost
anywhere."
They were now coming to Borton. The tide was rising and the little
town on its estuary looked a charming place, a fact Anita was quick to
remark upon.
"We think it quite ugly when the tide is out," Lillian told her,
"though artists flock here and paint even the mud flats. They look very
well in pictures with the spire of the old church somewhere in the
background, but we like it best when the tide is up."
A short walk took to them to the door of Primrose Cottage, a
quaintly-pretty, vine-hung abode with garden wandering off at the back
and laburnum bushes at the side. It was more spacious than at first
appeared as Anita noted as soon as she stepped inside. They were met at
the door by an erect old lady with penetrating grey eyes, a widow's cap
upon her head and a little shawl over her shoulders.
"Well, here you are at last," she exclaimed. "What brought you here,
Ernest Kirkby?" she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.
"I came to protect the strangers," retorted he, merrily.
"Sounds like your impudence," returned the old lady. "This is
Katharine, of course. She looks like I supposed she would after not
having laid eyes on her for--how many years is it?"
"It must be as many as sixteen or seventeen," responded her niece. "I
don't see that time has changed you much, Aunt Manning."
"It hasn't changed her a particle," Mr. Kirkby put in. "I'll venture to
say she hasn't altered one opinion that she ever held."
"I'm not a turn-coat, whatever I am," Mrs. Manning answered back,
leading the way into the pleasant living room. "See if Tibbie has tea
ready to bring in, Lillian. I want to have a look at this child of
Katharine's. Come over here to the light, child, and let me see if
there is any Drayton in your looks."
She led Anita to the small-paned window and took her face between two
wrinkled, but still delicate, hands. "Can't see a sign of Drayton," she
decided at last. "I'm afraid you are all Spanish, except that you are
not dark. There is one thing to be thankful for, however, you haven't
that long, narrow, phiz of Philip's. Ugh! how I despise that face of
his."
"Never mind, Philip, Granny," said Lillian, coming in. "He can wait
till we have nothing else to talk about. Anita isn't responsible for
him."
"She'd have her hands full if she were," declared the old lady. "But,
Anita! What a name! Why didn't you give her some good sound English
name, Katharine?"
"She was named for her father's mother, who was called Ana. Anita
means little Ana, just as Nancy or Nannie do in our tongue."
"Then I shall call her Nannie. No, Nancy; I like that better."
"I was always called Nancy till less than two years ago," Anita spoke
up.
"Then Nancy you shall be to me. I will have none of that lingo in my
house, not after Torquemada----"
"Here is the tea, Granny," Lillian interrupted hastily, and for the
moment Torquemada was allowed to rest in peace.
"Now tell me all about it. How and when you came, how long you shall
stay, and all the rest of it," said Mrs. Manning, when all were served
from the "curate" which was wheeled up to her.
"We came by way of Paris. We arrived yesterday and we shall stay as
long as it seems hopeful that we may find my son here," Mrs. Beltrán
replied.
"I suppose the son has some outlandish Spanish name, too. How you
ever expect to find him, in an English-speaking country, with an
unpronounceable name is more than I can tell. What did you tell me was
his name, Katharine?"
"It is José, but we call him by the diminutive, which is Pepé."
"Of all ridiculous names," cried Aunt Manning. "Sounds like baby talk.
Pay-pay. Baby 'ants to pay-pay. I shall never call him by anything so
silly. What is it in English, plain English?"
"It is Joseph, Aunt Manning; Joe, I suppose we might say," Mrs. Beltrán
answered with an amused smile.
"Joseph. Good, that is a good family name. We have Josephs in the
family as far back as sixteen hundred. And where do you imagine this
Joseph is?"
"We have learned that he came to England, and are going on that
information," Mrs. Beltrán told her. "Mr. Kirkby is going to help us
follow up the clue."
"Well, Ernest is used to following up clues. He can out-argue almost
anybody in the county except me, and I will not be out-argued by
anybody. I have a right to my opinions."
"So have I! So have I," spoke up Mr. Kirkby. "The trouble with Mrs.
Manning is this," he said, turning to Mrs. Beltrán, "she calls everyone
opinionated who will not change an opinion to suit hers, but she isn't
a bit opinionated. Oh, no, not she."
"Will you stop that clatter, Ernest Kirkby?" cried Mrs. Manning. "The
idea of a little whippersnapper like you daring to overrule me. Why, I
have taken you home to your mother to spank, dozens of times, and I'd
do it again if she were alive."
Mr. Kirkby put back his head and roared. He dearly loved to provoke
just such speeches.
"Do stop your noise," said Mrs. Manning, shaking her head at him.
"With such a roaring bull of Bashan about one can't think. What was I
saying, Katharine? Oh, yes, about finding this boy. It is going to be
some expense, isn't it?"
"Now, Mrs. Manning"--Mr. Kirkby became serious--"that is not a matter
that we need discuss. The time to spend money hasn't come yet."
"Well, when that time does come there will need to be money to spend,
won't there? What I was going to say, Katharine, was this: I see no
use in your wasting your means on lodging houses and all that. You and
Annie, no, it was to be Nancy, wasn't it? You and Nancy had best come
right here and stay with us and save your money."
Then Anita understood why Aunt Manning was an old dear. But Mrs.
Beltrán began to protest and Mrs. Manning turned suddenly to Lillian.
"Go tell Tibbie to come get the tea things," she said, "and take
Nancy with you. Show her the greenhouse and the garden, but don't let
the dogs in. They will scratch up that new border I have been having
Timpkins make. I want to talk to Katharine. I suppose I shall have to
let Ernest stay, for a man does have the wit to understand a situation
once in a while, though young people never do."
At this parting shot the two girls left the room. Anita was beginning
to understand that Aunt Manning's bark was worse than her bite, and
really felt that she could like her. There was a mocking glimmer in
those sharp gray eyes which told the tale.
"She is having a lovely time," declared Lillian. "If there is anything
Granny loves it is a bout with Mr. Kirkby. She adores him and he does
her, although to hear them you would think they meant to tear each
other's eyes out. There is Hotspur. You can make his acquaintance while
I go speak to Tibbie."
Anita set herself to work to make friends with an amber-eyed tawny-hued
Angora which lay curled up on the window-sill. He stretched himself
lazily and responded to her strokings by loud purrs, opening one sleepy
eye to view the unfamiliar presence. He evidently thought well of her,
for he did not move, but continued his contented purrs and permitted
the caresses. Haddie and Tommy, waiting outside, were at first in
high glee when they saw the two girls come out, but stood in dejected
attitude when they were forbidden to pass through the gate which led
into the rambling garden.
The garden of itself was a delight, a riot of spring blossoms, and in
the tiny greenhouse were other plants waiting to be set out. Among
these plants, sunning himself on a ledge, they found Signor Verdi,
a lithe green creature, tame enough to allow Lillian to scratch his
head and to take him in her hand where he lay quietly enough, but
flashed back among the green when Anita tried to make friends with him.
"Sometimes in winter I lose sight of him for weeks," Lillian told
her, "then some bright morning I come out and there he is as alive as
possible."
They made the rounds of garden and greenhouse and then returned to the
house to find Mrs. Manning and Mr. Kirkby chaffing, arguing, all but
quarreling.
"I have always maintained I will have nothing Spanish in my house,"
Mrs. Manning was saying.
"Not even Spanish mackerel, I suppose," the rector suggested.
"I certainly don't order Spanish olives, nor Spanish oil; I am very
particular about that. No, Ernest Kirkby, I maintain that I have made
it a rule not to encourage Spanish products."
"I'll bet you tuppence that you eat something Spanish every day of your
life," cried her antagonist.
"I beg you will mention it."
"Marmalade, orange marmalade. You can't deny that you eat it to your
breakfast every morning."
"Nonsense. Why, man alive, it is Scotch, made in Dundee. You should
know that."
"I do know that," the rector retorted triumphantly. "Of course it is
Dundee marmalade, but where do the oranges come from? Seville! Seville!
They have to use those bitter oranges, you know."
Mrs. Manning was nonplussed for the moment, then she broke out into a
hearty laugh. "It's never too late to mend," she said. "Lillian, I want
you to see to it that there is always strawberry jam on the table at
breakfast after this."
"Oh, but Granny, I like orange marmalade so much better to my
breakfast."
"Then you can buy it. I shall not," replied her grandmother, lifting
her eyebrows and half shutting her eyes, but smiling at the same time.
"I'll get even with you yet, Ernest Kirkby," she cried. "See if I
don't. Not going, are you?"
"I must be getting on. Dear woman, I am afraid to stay. This is my hour
of triumph and I don't want to lose its glow by tarrying too long,
besides I promised to spend the night in Chichester with a friend. I
shall see you very soon again, all of you."
Mrs. Manning looked after him as he went off briskly down the street.
"There goes one of the best men that ever lived," she commented. "I
never could see what you were thinking of, Katharine, to throw him over
for that poor visionary."
"I suppose it was for the same reason that you threw over 'Squire
Topham for Uncle Manning," returned Mrs. Beltrán, having learned from
Mr. Kirkby the best kind of weapons to use in her controversies with
her aunt.
"Humph!" Aunt Manning ejaculated, but did not pursue the subject. It
was a matter of family history that Aunt Manning might have married an
heir to nobility, but that she had preferred another and poorer man.
She had been a widow for many years. Her only son had gone into the
army, had married in India, and at the death of his wife had sent his
baby girl home to his mother in England. His death, a few years later,
left Lillian with no one but her grandmother to look to, and the two,
who understood one another, were devoted.
The two girls were hardly in before they were out again, for Lillian
would show Anita the harbor when the tide was up and the fishing boats
sitting gallantly upon the shining water. The dogs, too, were begging
for a walk and being persons of importance must be indulged. Haddie
trotted along daintily, avoiding mud as a gentleman should, but Tommy
was into everything, and Lillian, who read into her pets certain
peculiarities, entertained Anita by describing them. She maintained
that Hotspur could sing, though he had no ear for music and always
was off the key. Tommy, since associating with Haddie, tried hard not
to drop his H's, but always forgot when he was excited. Moreover, he
lisped a little. She talked so seriously about these characteristics,
that Anita came to believe they really possessed them, and found them
vastly amusing.
On the way down the street they met a well set-up young man, with a
fine, straightforward manner and a clear blue eye. He was presented as
Bertie Sargent. "We are old playfellows," said Lillian to her cousin.
"It was Bertie who gave me Tommy."
"Oh, was it?" Anita wondered if this were why Tommy appeared to be the
favorite.
The three walked down to the harbor, coming upon an artist hard at work
trying to catch the reflections in the water before the light should
fade. Bertie flung him some chaffing remark which he answered in kind,
and presently began packing up his sketching kit, calling to them
to wait for him. "The light has gone," he said, "and there's no use
keeping on."
They walked slowly to allow him to overtake them, meanwhile Lillian
hastily informed her cousin that he had come down from London for
sketching; that he was a cousin of Bertie's, and that he would
certainly make his mark as his work had already been hung by the Royal
Academy. His name, she said, was Harry Warren.
It naturally fell out that Anita should walk back with the young
artist while Lillian and Bertie followed on behind. There were many
nonsensical remarks tossed back and forth and before they reached
Primrose Cottage Anita felt herself on a very friendly footing with
them all. It was good to be again among those of her own age and
speaking her own language, and there were few regrets for Spain that
evening.
She was given her choice of sharing a room with her mother or with
Lillian, and at the latter's urging decided to become her room-mate.
"We should be excellent friends," remarked Lillian, as she stood
before her mirror, briskly brushing her thick light hair. "You see
we are much in the same boat. Neither of us has a father and we were
neither of us born in England."
"I am afraid the fact of my not having been will work against me with
Aunt Manning," replied Anita, ruefully. "Why is she so terribly down on
Spain?"
"Haven't you discovered the reason? It is because of your mother.
Granny was devoted to her sister, your grandmother, and to your mother
as well, so she cannot forgive your father for making them both
unhappy, and since she cannot wreak her vengeance on him she takes it
out on Spain itself, and especially upon the two whom she considers the
most deserving of abuse. She really gets a great deal of satisfaction
out of it, a sort of vicarious punishment, as it were. Poor, dear
Granny; you will have to be very enthusiastic about England if you want
to please her."
"I shall not have to try," returned Anita, "for I really feel
enthusiastic. Isn't Mr. Kirkby an old dear?"
"He is most delightful. He is another cause of Granny's feeling of
ill-will toward your father. She wanted Cousin Katharine to marry Mr.
Kirkby and believes that she might have done so but for your father. So
you see she has a double grudge."
"I understand, and am glad you have unravelled the mystery. I couldn't
understand why she was so dreadfully down on Spain."
Lillian tossed her thick braid of hair over her shoulder, and snuggled
down at the foot of the bed to watch her cousin's preparations for the
night. They grew more and more confidential, though neither spoke of
the one nearest her heart, although the last thought of Anita was given
to her lost lover, while a vision of Bertie Sargent slipped from a
remembrance into a dream of Lillian's.