MY BOY!
That Aunt Betsy Potter should have anything to do with the destinies of
the Beltrán family was furthest from anyone's calculations, yet from
humble sources may spring great events, and Aunt Betsy, as many times
before in her life, was the agency through which good came about.
It had never occurred to Anita and Lillian that the young Spaniard who
had called on Aunt Betsy and of whom she had spoken to the two girls,
might possibly be a person whom it would be worth while to inquire
about, but with Mr. Kirkby it was different and he, being a most
thorough person, was not going to let this Mr. Abercrombie drop out of
sight without more investigation. He reasoned that if Mr. Abercrombie
and his nephew had been in Chichester, probably they knew some one
there. He would ask each one of his acquaintances about it, even Aunt
Betsy. It might very possibly be he who had called with the nephew, or
stay, it might not be the nephew, after all, but some friend of his
and one or the other might know something of Pepé, for had he not left
Spain in company with an elderly Englishman? Very possibly they had
met. It would do no harm to inquire. As it happened, the first person
to whom he did put his questions was Aunt Betsy Potter.
"What about this visitor from Spain you had awhile ago, Aunt Bets?" the
rector began.
"The young man, sir? It was some time ago. 'E was a fine upstanding
young man."
"He came with his uncle, did he not? Do you remember his name?"
"It's been such a time, sir, that I'm afraid I disremember the name.
The gentleman 'e came with is a furriner."
"A foreigner? I didn't know you were acquainted with any foreigners."
"Oh, yes, sir. This one be from the States, sir. 'E boarded with me
years ago when I lived in 'Ampshire. 'E was with me one summer for
several weeks, and 'e be always sending me purty pictur cards. I've a
gurt pile of 'em. 'E's an unaccountable kind man. I've known 'im on and
off for a gurt many years."
"Where is he now?"
"I think 'e be in Lunnon, sir. I'd a pictur from there, the last time.
I dunnamany I 'ave, and I've them in a gurt book 'e gave me."
"I should like to see the book, Aunt Betsy."
"So you shall, sir. I pastes some in and some I slip. The last be just
loose, for I've not taken time to do them all."
She fumbled around in an old oaken chest and brought out the book
carefully wrapped in a gay handkerchief, probably a souvenir, a fairing
of long years gone by.
Mr. Kirkby turned over the pages. He gave but a cursory glance to the
first ones, but lingered more observantly over the last. "Do you mind
if I take down some of the addresses from these?" he asked.
"Lord bless you, no, sir. I'd be proud to have you do it."
Mr. Kirkby took out his note-book and carefully copied a half dozen or
so of the addresses, while Aunt Betsy said, "Read any you like, sir."
"How is it that I never heard of this gentleman?" asked Mr. Kirkby.
"Well, I don't know, sir. Mayhap you doant be round when 'e be. There
was a gurt many years 'e didn't come at all, after 'e was married, then
when 'is wife died 'e took up travellin' again, an' 'e comes 'ere to
Chichester and finds me."
Mr. Kirkby put his note-book carefully away. It might be a false clue,
but it might be the exact one. Aunt Betsy could not remember much about
those things which had happened recently, but of the things of long ago
she loved to speak in detail, as do most old persons.
A few days later, in company with the good rector, Terrence Wirt went
up to London. If their talk had happened to fall upon the subject of
Anita in all probability Terrence might have learned a great deal, but
they spoke of the war, of Terrence's part in it, of present dangers and
future hopes, so that Anita's secret was still her own.
The first news from the rector which came to Primrose Cottage gave
hope of a successful outcome of the operation. "The doctors now think
that he will in all probability gain the sight of one eye; the other
is doubtful. It must be some time before it can be determined. In the
meantime he remains in the hospital where he can be under constant
observation."
This was encouraging enough, but lengthened the time which must
pass before Anita would meet him again. However, something happened
meanwhile which would have set aside entirely a matter of less concern
to the girl, and did make everyone else lose sight of Terrence Wirt for
the time being. Mrs. Beltrán, who continually gave of herself more than
her strength would allow, was obliged to give up a continued residence
at The Beeches and, at the solicitations of all her friends, consented
to call herself merely a consulting nurse, and to remain at Primrose
Cottage except on such occasions as appeared absolutely necessary. The
two competent nurses whom Mr. Kirkby had looked up were now so well
trained that they could manage very well, as none of the cases required
constant vigilance, so Mrs. Manning was well satisfied at having both
Anita and her mother at home for Christmas, now fast approaching.
It was one day about the middle of December that Anita was about to
start out to post some letters when she was met at the door by Mr.
Kirkby. "Turn back, young woman, turn back," he said. "You are not to
go out. Where is your mother?"
"Upstairs. Do you want to see her?"
"I do most decidedly."
Anita started to call her. "Wait a minute," said the rector, and then
as they entered the sitting-room she saw there was some one with him, a
tall young man whose face was most familiar. She smiled a welcome.
"Do you know who this is?" asked Mr. Kirkby, looking from one to the
other, and rubbing his hands in sheer pleasure.
"Why, yes," answered Anita. "It is Mr. Donald Abercrombie, who used to
be our neighbor in Barcelona. We have met several times but have never
spoken."
"You are sure it is Mr. Donald Abercrombie?" said the rector, chuckling.
"Why, yes, at least----" Anita paused, for both were laughing. "Isn't
that your name?" she asked the young man, "and if it is not, what is
it?"
"It is José Maria Beltrán," came the answer.
"Pepé! My brother!" cried Anita and flung herself into his arms.
"My little sister, my little sister, _mi hermana_," murmured the young
man, holding her close.
For a moment Anita stood clasped in his embrace and then broke away.
"Mother! Oh, I must call mother. It is cruel to let her wait a moment."
She ran to the stairs and began the ascent, crying out, "Mother,
mother, come quick" at each step. Her voice, vibrating with joy and
excitement, still held a sob in it. She almost dragged her mother down
the steps, repeating, "Mother, oh, mother, at last, at last!" She
opened the door of the sitting-room where the two men stood waiting.
"See, see," cried Anita, "it isn't Donald at all. It is not his name."
For a moment the mother stood, gazing intently, taking in every detail
of the young man's face. He stepped forward, holding out his hands, all
the longing of his motherless years in his eyes. "Mother," he whispered.
She gave one cry: "My boy!" and was sobbing on his breast.
The rector was wiping his eyes and muttering something about the hand
of Providence, something which no one listened to, he caring nothing
whether they did or not, when the door opened and Aunt Manning stood on
the threshold. "What's all this to-do?" she began. "I thought somebody
had fallen down stairs."
Anita began to laugh hysterically, but she ran to her and began to
explain. "It was I, Aunt Manning. I wasn't falling. I was--I had to get
mother here as quickly as possible."
"Then somebody is hurt."
"Oh, no; oh, no." Anita wrung her hands in futile excitement.
"Tell me what she is talking about, or at least trying to," Aunt
Manning turned to Mr. Kirkby. "Is it that young man who is hurt? Who is
he?"
"He is Pepé, my brother Pepé," cried Anita.
"I don't believe a word of it," declared Aunt Manning. It was too new a
fact for her to accept at once. "Pepé, such a name. Why don't you call
him Joseph? Come here, young man, and I'll look at you. I can soon tell
if you are an impostor. Pepé, such a silly nursery sort of name."
Mrs. Beltrán, clasping her son's arm, turned him around to face the old
lady. "This is our very dear Aunt Manning," she said, "your great-aunt,
my son."
Aunt Manning looked him up and down. "Drayton all over," she decided
finally. "Not a speck of Spanish anywhere that I can see, and I hope he
will drop that ridiculous Spanish name."
"It is a long time since anyone has called me by it," replied Pepé, in
excellent English. "My good friend, Mr. Abercrombie began by calling me
Don José, in a sort of sport, but it soon came to be merely Don, and
so he has called me for a long time."
"It was just that which fooled us," cried Anita. "We heard him call you
so in Barcelona, and you looked so English that we made up our minds
that you must be named Donald, especially as you called him uncle."
"It is his wish that I do so. He is such a friend as I never had in all
my life before."
"And where is he now?"
"He is just returned to the United States. I hope he may reach there
safely."
"How does it happen that you did not go with him?"
"I should have done so but for this good friend," he laid his hand on
Mr. Kirkby's arm. "He has discovered me just in time."
"Well, sit down here and tell us all about it," commanded Aunt Manning.
"See where Lillian is, Nancy. She must not lose this. You might as well
stop and tell Tibbie to make crumpets for tea, or scones, or something,
a lot of them. Men are such hearty eaters. I have fed Ernest Kirkby
before."
Anita sped on her errand and was soon back with Lillian who was duly
presented to this new cousin and who was well nigh as excited as Anita
herself.
"Joseph is going to tell us his story," announced Aunt Manning, "and
don't either of you girls interrupt him by silly questions. I am glad
he can speak English."
"I think you know something of my life before I arrived in England,"
Pepé began, "of my stay with Uncle Marcos, of my work in Barcelona.
This good gentleman has told me that you know so much. It is after my
meeting with Mr. Abercrombie that you do not know. He takes a fancy for
me," Pepé was still a little awkward with his prepositions, "and brings
me with him. He has business in Spain, in England, but he is lonely
since the death of the wife, and wishes a companion who can perhaps be
of use to him. He likes my little violin, and plays well himself, so we
journey together. He has taught me many things. I owe him much. Because
of the loneliness he wishes that I call him uncle, Uncle Bruce, and as
you would say as a nick-name he calls me Don, always Don. Now that this
war has come he must return to his country, but we hope to meet again."
"Was he disappointed that you left him to go alone?" asked Anita.
"Now, what did I say?" Aunt Manning cried. "Of course he was
disappointed. I knew one of you would ask some silly question."
Pepé eyed this outspoken great-aunt rather distrustfully. He had not
been happy in his experience with great-aunts, but Anita was not to be
downed, and shot out another question. "Had you any idea before you
saw Mr. Kirkby that you had a mother and sister living?" This time Aunt
Manning made no criticism. It was a perfectly legitimate inquiry.
"I thought perhaps the mother, the sister, no. I had never heard of
her, you see."
"And I have known about you for over two years," said Anita, wistfully.
"We have much to learn about each other. Did Mr. Kirkby tell you of how
we searched for you in Spain?"
"Something of it."
"To think," Mrs. Beltrán spoke, "that we should have been so near you
there in Gracia, so near that we saw you every day and spoke of you so
often. I was much drawn to you then, my dear son, but I did not know
why; I thought it was because you reminded me of my English cousins, of
English lads, but all the time it was that my heart recognized you when
my eyes did not."
"What I am curious to know," said Lillian, "is how Mr. Kirkby
discovered you."
"Exactly what I was going to ask," cried Aunt Manning. "Was it through
the detective in London, Ernest?"
"No, he was working on the supposition that an Englishman was
responsible for the boy's coming to this country. I don't know by what
process my mind formed the theory that the Abercrombie who visited old
Mrs. Potter, and brought with him a Spanish lad might possibly be the
man we were seeking, but it was around that possibility that my train
of thought seemed more and more to move, and when I questioned her I
was convinced that there might be something in it, so I took down the
addresses on the last batch of post-cards she had received from Mr.
Abercrombie and thought I would try to follow him up, beginning at the
address on the card last received. It happened to be a picture of a
hotel in London which I argued he might well be stopping at. It was
there I went first. He was not there, but I received his address at
Southampton from which port he was about to sail, and there I caught
him. Like the fine fellow he is he urged this young man to make no
delay in reaching his mother, and so we made our farewells and took the
first train for Chichester."
"It is wonderful, wonderful," said Aunt Manning, thoughtfully, "but why
did you always act upon the supposition that this Mr. Abercrombie, or
whoever might be Joseph's friend, must necessarily be an Englishman?"
"In Spain those who speak English are called Ingles. Everyone who told
us of this friend of Pepé's said he went with an Ingles to England.
As they went to England, naturally we thought only of his being an
Englishman," Mrs. Beltrán explained.
"Why in the world Lillian and I did not think of making further
inquiries about Aunt Betsy's Spanish visitor is more than I can see,"
remarked Anita. "I, at least, knew my brother had been in Chichester.
It is strange how one will let a thing like that slip through the
fingers."
"It is because we are so given to following up a pet theory and lose
sight of any other while the one occupies our thoughts," said Mr.
Kirkby. "One has to look on all sides in order to perceive a small
truth as well as a large one. Ah, here comes the crumpets."
They were taking their tea when Mrs. Beltrán said to her son: "Mr.
Kirkby has told you, I suppose, that your Aunt Pilar is dead."
"No, I did not tell him," Mr. Kirkby interrupted. "I left all that to
you, Katharine."
"She is dead? Tia Pilar is dead?" exclaimed Pepé. "I am sorry, my
mother, that I cannot sorrow for her. I should, I suppose, for although
she did it grudgingly and because Uncle Marcos demanded it, she did
look after me when I was a child."
"Yes, but how did she do it?" asked Anita, indignantly. "Not so kindly
as one would care for a dog, certainly not so well as the dogs here are
cared for."
Pepé looked at her and smiled. "Then you perhaps have heard some
things."
"We have heard quite enough and have seen enough of her to feel
anything but kindly toward her," Anita rejoined. "I shall never forgive
her, never, for withholding from our mother the information which
would have spared her so much sorrow and you so much unhappiness."
"I do not understand," Pepé looked up with a puzzled expression.
"You do not know that our mother wrote to her years ago and that the
answer from this Pilar was that she knew nothing of you."
"I did not know this. No, I did not know this. She was always most
severe in speaking of our mother. I could not bear to hear her, and so
I never did mention the name of mother to her."
"That is what rouses my indignation," cried Anita, clenching her
hand. "To think that they should have set you against your dear,
sweet mother, that they should have believed evil of her." She spoke
passionately.
Her mother laid a restraining hand upon her arm. "Never mind that,
dear," she said. "It is all past. At last we are together. Let the dead
past bury its dead. Should you like to go back to Spain to live, Pepé?"
"Joseph," cried Aunt Manning. "Don't call him Pepé. It's all this
treatment of your mother, Joseph, that has set me against Spain. I
suppose it is unchristian when there are those Germans behaving so
outrageously toward everybody, yet when a thing strikes directly home
and touches those you love you do feel that you want to vent your
spite upon something or somebody."
"Spain is not so bad," returned Pepé, smiling. "I have no unkind
feeling toward Spain, but I should not want to go back there to live. I
have been there too unhappy."
"But you will have to go back. Tell him, mother, why he must," Anita
spoke.
Then Mrs. Beltrán told him about his Uncle Marcos's will, and of how it
affected him and his little Cousin Amparo.
"_Madre de Dios!_" exclaimed Pepé, reverting to his familiar Spanish.
"How strange is all this. I am in a dream. I sleep. I am not awake. I
cannot believe. Yet, that Uncle Marcos was not so unkind. He made me
work, yes, too hard, but while he lived he had a fondness, a sort of
fondness for me. He was miserly, but not so as the wife, nor so unkind.
I see he wished me well. I cannot believe that I, the poor boy, the
poor working boy, now am possessing that land upon which I slaved. It
is too incredible. I shall have to go. Yes, I shall have to go to Spain
for a time, perhaps, only for a time."
"And I shall go with you, my son," said Mrs. Beltrán. "We know them
all, all who were your friends, and we have other friends whom you do
not know and who will be so glad to see you, to learn that at last we
have found each other."
"We must send a card to that good Tito Alvarez. We must do it
to-morrow. We must each send him a Christmas card," said Anita.
"Tito? Tito Alvarez? You have met him?"
"Yes, we have met him and Anselmo, your friend Anselmo as well. Each
has helped to link the chain together which finally drew us to you."
"But it was poor old Bets Potter that supplied the final link," said
Aunt Manning. "Who could ever have thought it! One never knows what
time and patience will bring."