Nancy first and last

by Amy Ella Blanchard

Anita went out on the balcony to watch the cab out of sight. "Good-bye, Uncle Bruce," she said under her breath. "Good-bye, Don. I hope you will come back soon."

"I have been thinking that perhaps they have only gone off for a short trip," said Mrs. Beltrán, as Anita came back into the room. "We must find out. Doña Carmen will ask Doña Dolores. It is strange that one should feel so concerned about absolute strangers, but I suppose it is because they are my own countrymen."

"I'd like to find out the name," said Anita; "it would make us seem a little better acquainted with them."

"We will ask Doña Carmen to find out."

Doña Carmen was appealed to and brought them back the news that the Ingleses had gone back to England; they might return in six months, a year, who knows? "Hay no remedia," said Doña Dolores. She regretted to part with them for they were considerate and good tenants. Their name was Abercrombie. Doña Dolores had written it down on a piece of paper, for Doña Carmen found it impossible to remember or indeed to pronounce. The nearest she could come to it was Ahbair-cr-r-ombéeay, with a strong accent on the penultimate. "Never shall I try to say this word," she declared, laughing. "I have done with it. It is too difficult. I cannot see why one should have such name as this. It is savage."

"I am more than ever convinced they are Scotch," Mrs. Beltrán said, after Doña Carmen had reported. "Could anything be more so? Bruce Abercrombie, Donald Abercrombie. Well, dear, they have been a source of interest and pleasure whether we ever come across them again or not. Now we must settle down and set our hopes upon Señor Garriguez. It may be months before he learns anything of use to us, so we must make ourselves contented."

The autumn moved toward winter; winter was aging when the next news came, and in the meanwhile Anita busied herself with her Spanish lessons, learned one or two pretty dances, did much sightseeing, grew very weary of Don Manuel, and probed the very shallow depths of Imogene Ralston, discovered that she was superficial and vain, that she resented an attention paid to any but herself, could be spiteful and malicious, yet always outwardly sweet and smiling. Don Manuel did not in the least see through her and continually lauded her sweetness, her brilliancy, her talents. Her brilliancy was due to a ready wit, a good memory and a faculty of appropriating the cleverness of others. Her sweetness was always to the fore when a masculine was present. Her talents consisted in making the most of what she professed to accomplish in the way of copies of the old masters. She was desperately jealous of Anita, and so schemed and contrived that it was not long before she had won the young student back to her allegiance, to Anita's relief and the satisfaction of her mother.

The kindly Perlitas lingered on, always declaring that they were departing the next week, yet never going. Their chief fault, which was more a weakness than a fault, was that constant striving to appear many years younger than they were. They spoke of themselves as girls. They wore wonderful transformations from which after a hurried toilet on certain occasions one perceived the gray locks beneath. They powdered; they painted; they walked jauntily, but they were so innocent, so guileless and unsuspicious, so generous and gentle that the most that their childish vanity provoked was an indulgent smile. "Tryin' to be old Miss Young, Parthy would say," was Anita's comment.

With Christmas came many reminders of the old days. Letters and cards, forwarded by the faithful Weed. By this time it had leaked out that Nancy Loomis was no more, but her old friends, while pronouncing themselves astonished by the facts, declared themselves to be always her devoted friends. The young people especially, spoke of envying her such a romantic life and looked upon her as a rare heroine. They gave her many bits of news. Pat Lippett was engaged to Betty Page Peyton; the Tom Lindsays had moved away; old Mrs. Abijah Brown was dead; Dr. Plummer had been thrown out of his motor car but not seriously hurt, although the car was. There had been lots of dances and they missed Nancy—she would always be Nancy to them—and wasn't she ever coming back?

All these little bits of gossip brought hours of homesickness to Anita. She thought of the Christmas holidays she had spent with her adopted mother, of the shining faces of Parthy and Ira on Christmas morning when they waylaid her with cries of "Crismuss gif', Miss Nancy." She thought of that one blessed day in the dawn of her acquaintance with Terrence Wirt, when she hoped and feared and half suspected that he loved her, and when coming home together from the church on Christmas Eve, where they had been helping with the decorations, he had said something which sent the blood racing through her veins, although it was not till a month later that he had really spoken openly of his love.