OPENED EYES
Mr. Kirkby carried Pepé off to the rectory where he insisted he should
remain as long as he stayed in England. "You shall see the boy every
day," he promised Anita and her mother, "but I want him myself some of
the time. You won't refuse me that, Katharine."
"After all you have done, all that we owe you, is there anything we
could refuse you?" said Mrs. Beltrán. "Such a wonderful friend as you
have always been, Ernest. I don't feel as if I had words to express my
gratitude to you for your supreme goodness to me now and always."
"Tut, tut, tut," cried Mr. Kirkby, taking her hands in his. "You know,
my dear Katharine, that nothing in the world has brought me such
exalted happiness as the fact that partly through my efforts your boy
is restored to you. As for the other things, well, they have given me
happiness, too, so please say no more about that."
"I do believe you are the best man in the world, Ernest Kirkby," said
Mrs. Beltrán with tears in her eyes. "I hope some day we, my children
and I, can do something for you."
"You are doing something every minute, and you are doing a big thing to
let me have the boy."
"Then I shall not say another word about his remaining with you, Aunt
Manning to the contrary notwithstanding."
"Aunt Manning wants too much," replied Mr. Kirkby, and went off
laughing.
Boxes for the lads in the trenches had been prepared and sent off,
Lillian taking especial interest in the preparation. So far neither
Bertie nor Harry had been in an engagement. They wrote cheerfully and
in detail, but who knew what day might come direful news. Everyone in
the household contributed to these Christmas boxes, even the dogs and
Hotspur, for Lillian wrote letters, very characteristic ones indeed,
purporting to come from each of the little creatures, and they were
signed with the impress of a damp paw. "Hims autodas," Lillian said of
Tommy's. A packet of snap-shots went along with the other things, one
of Pepé being included. Another box went from The Beeches, a touching
little note for Harry, slipped in by Eleanor, made him thoughtful and
rather unhappy.
Reviewing past years, explaining situations, getting acquainted,
gave occasion for many long talks with Pepé. When his mother was not
absorbing him Anita was, until Aunt Manning testily declared that they
were too selfish for words. Did they think she had no rights at all? At
her age to be set aside in this way was ridiculous. Her inclination was
to coddle him, to lavish everything possible upon him, to make a matter
of great importance his likes and dislikes. She could not forget the
hardships of his boyhood and wanted to do her part in making up for it.
"This Aunt Manning," said Pepé to his sister, one day when she had been
solicitous beyond the usual, "she has, what is it? She has a very large
bark, but the bite is of no consequence."
"She has no bite at all," responded Anita, "it is at the most a mere
harmless nibble."
Pepé's English was usually quite correct, but he twisted his
expressions sometimes and pronounced words a trifle peculiarly. He
was quiet and unassuming, but keen and active mentally. He had taken
in knowledge in gulps, and having a retentive memory had acquired
more than many a young person having greater advantages. This thirst
for information delighted Mr. Kirkby, who added to Mr. Abercrombie's
training a supplementary course under which Pepé advanced by leaps and
bounds. His devotion to his mother was pathetic. The stunted affections
of his childhood once started grew rapidly. It seems as if he could
never make up to his mother for those years of hard suspicion. With
Anita he was somewhat less confidential. She was a new element, one
who had not been reckoned for, yet day by day their affection for each
other increased and under Anita's exuberance and her expressions of
pleasure in him he expanded visibly.
"You are a dear," Anita said to him one day, "I always hoped you would
be, but I used to have terrible fears about you."
"How else?" said Pepé. "You knew of me only as a workman, a poor
laborer, a factory hand. I am not surprised at that. Yet all the time
I wished not to be as I was. I wished to be a gentleman. I wished for
books, for music, for those things which one cannot gain by working
only in a field. I do not despise this at all, but it is not what I
longed for."
"It is like a fairy tale," declared Anita. "Pepé, there is one thing I
wish you would tell me. I hope I am not too curious, but that day when
we saw you in the cathedral, you remember that we told you how we even
touched you in passing, were you praying for--for us?"
Pepé smiled and took her hand. "I was; at least I was praying Our
Lady to give me mother-love. I who had never known a mother, desired
this sort of affection. I felt the need of it. The dear and good
Abercrombie, yes, he was like a father, but at times there comes a wish
for such comfort as only a mother can give."
Anita laid her cheek against his hand. "That prayer was answered, Pepé,
and you have a sister's love, too. I loved you as soon as I knew of
you, and I pictured you to myself, not very clearly, to be sure, but
still you looked somewhat as you do, and always when I saw him whom
I called Donald, I thought of you, and said to myself: he will look
much the same. Once or twice I had a sudden belief that he might be
you, but I put it away. There has been much confusion of names. Those
things come in waves, I suppose. I was Nancy Loomis and am now Anita
Beltrán. You whom we called Donald Abercrombie have become our own Pepé
Beltrán." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. "You
do love me a little bit, don't you, brother?" she said, wistfully. "You
are getting used to me?"
He put her hand to his lips. "I love you very much. Every day I awake
and say: I am so rich. I have a mother and a sister whom I love."
"We can do many things together," Anita went on. "We shall do our music
together, you with your violin; I with the piano, and we can dance.
Do you know the _jota_? Of course you do. Oh, Pepé, I remember that I
promised to do some Spanish dances at The Beeches to entertain those
poor soldiers. Will you come, too? With your violin? We can dance the
_jota_ together and some other things. I have some music. I must hunt
it up and take it over for Eleanor to practice. She can do that sort of
thing very well. Will you do it?"
"I will do so very gladly. I have not been one to dance very often, but
one who lives in Spain cannot help but know the dances. All Spain knows
how to dance."
"I have an _aldeana_ costume which I have made. I wish you had one,
too. Perhaps we can get up one in time. Mother will help. She will like
to. We will see about it at once. And your music, it will add so much,
will give so much pleasure. There is Mr. Kirkby tooting his horn to let
you know he has come. He is rather early it seems to me."
"We go to Chichester, to the old lady who has the post-cards. Mr.
Kirkby wishes that she see me. He has told her of the part her
post-cards have played in this drama."
"Of course then she wishes to meet you again. Run up and say good-bye
to mother and Auntie while I keep Mr. Kirkby quiet."
She ran out to where the car was standing. "What news, your riverince?"
she asked.
"Good news," he replied. "Our friend Terrence Wirt is promised his
release from the hospital in time for him to spend Christmas with us."
"That is good news," responded Anita, catching her breath. "His eyes,
what about his eyes?"
"One is quite right; the other has a bit clipped out of the sight, so
it will be of little use to him, but to see at all, and he certainly
does, that is great, isn't it?"
"It is great, indeed. When do you think he will be here?"
"By Christmas Eve, he says. The doctors think he would better get to
some sunnier climate for the rest of the winter, for he needs to be
out of doors. Where's that boy?"
"He is coming. He just went up to say good-bye to mother. It is very
harrowing, this daily separation," she laughed. "Between mother and
Aunt Manning, I am afraid he will get so spoiled there will be no
living with him."
"You're jealous, miss, that's what the matter."
"I'm not. Don't you dare to say such a thing. Imagine my being
jealous of my brother whom I have longed for all this time," she said
indignantly, and Mr. Kirkby laughed.
"Nice lad, nice lad," he said, "so is young Wirt. There are a number of
good people left in the world, my child."
"I don't need to be told that when I see one of the very best before
me," she retorted.
"Coals of fire! Coals of fire!" he cried, lifting his hands. "Here
comes the boy. Will you go along, too, to Chichester? We are going to
call on Aunt Bets."
"No, thank you. I promised to go over to The Beeches with Lillian."
She waited till the car had turned a corner and then went in to hunt
up her mother. She found her busily and happily occupied in mending
something of Pepé's. "He is coming, coming, do you hear, blessed
mother? He is coming on Christmas Eve."
"Pepé is?" queried her mother, snipping off a thread. "Was there any
question about it? I know Aunt Manning expects him to join us."
Anita went over and took her mother's head between her hands, kissing
the top of it. "Oh, you precious thing, I acknowledge that Pepé is a
most absorbing subject, but there are others, there are others. It is
Terrence who is to come. You must ask Aunt Manning to have him here at
once. He can see, mother, he can see. Mr. Kirkby has just told me. One
eye is all right and the other is not absolutely lost to him."
"I am glad, very glad, daughter dear, for him and for you."
"And you will ask Aunt Manning? I must hunt up a piece of music to take
over to Eleanor, a _jota_ that she will want to practice for Christmas
Eve. Pepé and I will dance it together, and I must show her how to get
the swing of it. Oh, mother, we must try to get up an Asturian costume
for Pepé. He will look so well in one, and it will add so much to the
dance." She began searching around in her trunk for the music which she
presently found and laid aside, then she rose to her feet with a frock
hung over her arm, a soft blue _crêpe de chine_. She carried it to her
mother. "Don't you think I might wear this when Terrence comes?" she
asked. "I have worn sombre colors for so long, and my heart sings so,
sings so that I want to do something to express my joy. I brought this
with me because I could not bear to leave it behind. It is a little
out of style, but not much so, because it is so simple. It is Terry's
favorite of all my frocks."
Her mother smiled. "And so, you sentimental child, you brought it along
and want him to see you in it when he meets you."
Anita smiled, too. "You looked right into my heart that time. I do want
to wear it. Don't you see how he will recognize it and then will be
sure that it is his Nancy."
"A nice dramatic situation. Very well. I see no reason why you should
not wear it, for certainly you have worn sober colors long enough, and
I, for one, shall be glad to see you in something more cheerful than
grays and lavendars. Leave the dress here and I will look it over and
see if it is in proper condition for you to wear on Christmas Eve."
"I should like to have a hat on when he first sees me," said Anita,
thoughtfully, as she picked up the pieces of music she had selected,
"then he would not be so much puzzled by my dark locks."
"I see. You want to appear before him as a vision of delight. Well, my
child, there is no special objection to your planning out a dramatic
scene, though, for my part, I think it would be better to have the
meeting come about in a perfectly natural way. If you should happen to
have a hat on well and good, but if there is no cause for wearing it
at that particular moment I don't believe I would go to the length of
putting one on for the occasion. It appears too theatrical to try for
a sensation."
"You are right, as you always are," Anita acknowledged. "I should be
really very full of humility and thankfulness instead of letting my
imagination run away into such a groove. I will not wear even this
frock if you think it would be best not to," which speech showed that
Anita Beltrán had improved upon Nancy Loomis.
"I advise you to wear it by all means," her mother replied.
Anita gave a sigh of content and went off with the music, but at the
door she turned back to say, "You won't forget to ask Aunt Manning. It
is only a few days off, only a few days, do you realize? Oh, mother!"
She dropped the pile of music on a chair and ran to give her mother a
hug and kiss. "In spite of the war, and all that, we are happy, aren't
we, mother? What wonderful things have been given to us. Together, you
and Pepé and Terrence and I. We should be happy, shouldn't we?"
"My darling child, of course we should be. I never had your faith and
hope, but it was all justified. Now run along, for I hear Lillian
calling, and Tommy Atkins, too."
Anita sped away to find Lillian at the foot of the stairs with Tommy
barking furiously, his way of calling when Lillian gave him the order.
"I saw Signor Verdi to-day," Lillian told her. As the little green
lizard had been in retirement since cold weather began this was quite a
piece of news, and Anita responded accordingly, adding "I have a bigger
piece of news than that. I will tell you as we go along."
"It must be exciting, judging from your looks," replied Lillian.
"I've a right to be excited," returned Anita in joyous tones, and then
she disclosed to her cousin the secret which she had kept from her all
this time ending up with, "I made up my mind not to tell a soul until
I knew about his eyes. Only mother has known and she advised me to
tell no one else at first. I shall tell no one else but Pepé. Isn't it
wonderful, Lillian?"
"It is very wonderful and I am so glad for you. It is strange that so
much comes into some lives and into others nothing," she said sadly.
"Oh, but my dear, a great deal has come into yours, hasn't it?"
"Yes, of course, but my every moment now, sleeping and waking is filled
with anxiety."
"I know what that means, for I have been anxious, too. It was so
uncertain about Terry's eyes."
"And he is coming for Christmas, you say?"
"Yes, we expect him, and, Lillian, I am so bothered about that first
moment of recognition. It would be so awkward if everyone should happen
to be right there, and how in the world can I manage to see him alone
for those first few moments?"
"If I see him coming before Granny does I will get her out of the way,
into the greenhouse. She is always perfectly safe in there pottering
over the plants."
"You are a dear. We will have to be on the watch."
Lillian laughed. "There is no fear but that you will be," she returned.
But as it happened neither one of the girls saw Terrence arrive, for he
came in the morning when even the blue dress was a thing not suitable
to be worn at that hour. Anita and her mother were busy in trying on
the Asturian costume which they were making Pepé. Lillian was out with
the dogs, and so it was Aunt Manning who received the visitor. She
sent Tibbie up to say who had called and Anita was aghast. It was not
turning out as she had planned, not at all.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "I cannot go down, and meet him before
Aunt Manning, no, I cannot. You go, mother, and I will stay up here. I
shall wait till I can see him alone; I shall have to do that."
So Mrs. Beltrán went down alone to find Aunt Manning fiercely demanding
why the young man had not brought his bag. "But I am supposed to be
staying at The Beeches," he argued.
"Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind," retorted Aunt Manning.
"They have a houseful as it is and we haven't a single Christmas guest.
Ernest Kirkby had to monopolize my nephew, Joseph, and cheated us out
of his visit, and here you are backing out."
"But, my dear Mrs. Manning," replied the young man, "I didn't
understand that you expected me to take up my headquarters here."
"Then the sooner you understand the better. Is anything the matter with
this house that everyone wants to shun it?"
"My dear Mrs. Manning----" The young man tried to conciliate her. He
had heard enough of her bristling manner from others not to be able to
set a true value upon its unimportance.
Just here, however, Mrs. Beltrán appeared and Mrs. Manning went off
to the telephone, to "have it out," as she expressed it, with Mrs.
Teaness. In a few minutes she came back quite mollified. "It is quite
right," she announced. "She understands. I will send Timpkins over for
your bag and you will stay just where you are."
This, however, Terrence would not listen to, as he declared he must
make his excuses in person and went off in spite of protests, promising
to return in the afternoon.
Therefore, although the edge of her expectations was taken off a
trifle, Anita was able to adhere to her decision of seeing her true
love alone. Lillian managed to follow out her scheme of getting her
grandmother into the greenhouse at the critical moment, and Anita,
arrayed in the blue frock of precious memory, went down with beating
heart into the drawing room where Tibbie had ushered the guest.
He was standing in front of the grate fire, his head thoughtfully bent
when Anita reached the doorway. She stood a moment upon the threshold,
her heart beating so furiously that she could not trust herself to
speak. He was there, the same familiar form, the same beloved features.
He looked older, paler, more thoughtful and grave. She dropped the
curtain behind her and made a step forward. He looked up. An expression
of wonder came over his face. He passed his hand over his eyes as if
trying to brush away some illusion. Anita advanced a step or two but
felt powerless to utter a word. Terrence looked at her fixedly from the
crown of her dark head to her slippered feet. "Nancy," he breathed.
"The same eyes, the same mouth, even the same blue dress. My Nancy. The
Nancy that was once mine."
Anita moved swiftly forward holding out both hands and finding speech
at last. "Terrence, Terrence," she cried, joyously. "It is your Nancy
still; always your Nancy during all this time. Oh, Terrence, I was so
silly ever to let you go."
He held her close, and, when Aunt Manning's voice broke in upon them,
as she suddenly appeared with Lillian, they still stood with clasped
hands.
Aunt Manning viewed them for a moment with severe disapproval, then
she said, "Young man, why are you holding my niece's hand?"
"He had a right to hold my hand long before you ever saw me, Aunt
Manning," retorted Anita, who, having come to her own, was ready with
some of her old spirit.
"What's this? What's this?" queried Aunt Manning.
"I'll have to explain. There will be no use in trying to put it off,"
said Anita, with an adorable look at her lover. "You talk to Lillian."
But as Mrs. Beltrán appeared upon the scene Lillian thought best to
follow her grandmother and Anita into the sitting-room. "I tried my
best to keep her longer," she whispered to Anita, as they passed out,
"but that old Tibbie had to come and let the cat out of the bag."