"I don't know exactly. I suppose I was jes' natchelly mean, as Parthy would say. You do forgive me, though, don't you, for that and all the other things? All that unhappiness which sent you to Europe you might have avoided but for bad me."
"Dearest girl, so were you equally unhappy, and you have even more to forgive. I was a blundering idiot not to have gone back to you at once. I, who should have been near you at a time when you needed all the help and love possible, left you to bear your sorrows all alone. I cannot forget that."
"My own true mother has shown me how good often comes out of evil," said Anita, gravely. "Perhaps I should never have found her nor Pepé if you had been with me, and maybe, Terrence, we are both better for what we have suffered. I hope I am."
"You are dearer than ever, dearer than ever," he replied, brokenly. Then appeared the conspirators with Aunt Manning heading them. "I am glad you are sensible enough to take my view of things," she announced herself by saying. "Of course it would be perfectly ridiculous for you to be married anywhere else but here, since it appears that you must go to Spain, though I must say I don't agree with any of you about it's being absolutely necessary. If you are all so willfully set upon it we shall have the marriage take place on New Year's Eve. Joseph can give you away, Nancy, and Lillian will be your bridesmaid. We can wire up to London and have you a proper frock sent down."
"And hims will throw hims old shoe after you," asserted Lillian.
With matters taken out of her hands in this summary manner there was nothing for Anita to do but to acquiesce, and Terrence, in his pleasure at having things arranged to his liking, insisted upon kissing Aunt Manning then and there. "It's lucky Tibbie didn't see me," she exclaimed, half hysterically, "or she would have given notice."
The Christmas party at The Beeches was a great success. The announcement of the suddenly arranged marriage, with the departure immediately following, centered all the interest in Anita and her affairs, but, a few days after, even this great interest sank into insignificance on account of sorrowful news from the trenches. Harry Warren would never again walk in Sussex ways with any of them. He was killed by an enemy's shell a few days after Christmas. A note to poor Eleanor, in response to hers, the last, perhaps, that he ever wrote, was all she had to comfort her, such slight comfort as it was. There was something very pathetic in her silent grief, grief for one to whom she had given love unsought, and Lillian, more than anyone else, gave her an unspoken sympathy. Bertie, shocked and distressed by this loss of his chum, wrote at length to Lillian and she, knowing what his letter would mean to Eleanor, poor Elly Fantine, gave it into her keeping.
The quiet little wedding was even quieter because of this shadow which was thrown across the little group. No one was present except those most interested. Aunt Manning bore herself bravely, held her head high when going into church, but looked a drooping and lonely figure when she came out. Much had come into her life in these past few months; much was going out of it now. So few were left and these had twined themselves very closely around her heart. "You will come back; you must come," she whispered brokenly as she clung to Mrs. Beltrán.
"When the war is over," promised her niece.
"I am an old woman, an old woman, Katharine, I may not see the end of this war. Come back before you leave this side of the world," she begged.