Honey-Sweet Part 16

"Anne? Anne who?" asked Mr. Patterson, blankly--for the moment forgetful of the child who had been a brief episode in his busy life.

"Why, Anne Lewis, of course--our little Anne," said Pat.

"Oh, that child," answered Mr. Patterson, carelessly. "She is in an orphan asylum in Virginia. I put her there the week we landed."

Pat started to his feet. "In an orphan asylum?" he gasped. He knew asylums only through the experiences of Oliver Twist, and if his father had said "in jail," the words would not have excited more horror.

"Of course," replied his father, viewing his emotion with surprise.

"That was where she belonged. We couldn't find any of her own people.

Why, son! You didn't expect me to keep her, did you?"

"Mother intended that. She said Anne was my--little--sister." The boy found it difficult to speak.

"Your mother! If she had lived--but without her--be reasonable, Pat.

How could you and I--we rolling stones--take charge of a little girl?

And now--"

"There is Aunt Sarah," interrupted Pat, refusing to be convinced. "Or school. I thought you had her in boarding-school like me. Where is she?"

Mr. Patterson was just going to tell Pat about Anne and her whereabouts.

But now he was provoked that his son put the question, not as a request, but as a demand. He spoke sternly. "You forget yourself, Patrick. It is not your place to take me to task for pursuing the course that I thought proper in this matter. We will drop the subject, if you please."

"But, father, Anne--"

"Patrick!" Mr. Patterson interrupted. "Either sit down and finish your dinner quietly or go to your room."

Pat turned on his heel and went up-stairs, but not to his chamber.

Instead, he made his way to a little attic room with a dormer window.

There was a couch which his mother had covered with chintz patterned in morning-glories, his birth-month flowers. The book-shelves and the chest for toys were covered with the same design, applied by her dear hands.

How many a rainy Sunday afternoon his mother and he had spent in this den, reading and talking together! In the months since his mother's death, he had never missed her as he did now--in these first days at home. There was no one to take away the loneliness. Aunt Sarah was with Cousin Hugh. And now Anne was away--not just for a time but for always.

There was no one left but his father, who seemed like a stranger and whom--he said it over and over to himself--he did not love.

The boy threw himself face downward on his couch and sobbed as he had not done since the first days after his mother's death. Where was Anne?

Was she with people who were good to her? If only he had written to her long ago! Father would have sent the letter, or given the address. He had begun a letter telling about a big baseball game but he had blotted it; it was in his portfolio still, unfinished. Poor little Anne! The tears came afresh. He could see his mother stroking Anne's fair hair, as she had done one day when he was teasing about Honey-Sweet.

"My son," the gentle voice had said, "you must be good to our little girl. Remember, she has no one in the world but us."

Dear little Anne! What a jolly playmate she was,--brave, good-tempered, affectionate! and what a generous little soul! How she always insisted on dividing her fruit and candies with him when he devoured his share first.

An hour pa.s.sed. Mr. Patterson came up-stairs, went from his room into Pat's, and then walked down the hall.

"Pat!" he called. "Patrick!" The voice sounded stern but really its undertone was anxiety.

Pat did not speak. He scrambled to his feet and descended the stairs.

With set mouth and downcast eyes, he stood before his father.

"Did I not tell you to go to your room, Pat?"

"Yes, father." Pat paused in the doorway. "I want to know where Anne is," he said.

"Patrick!" Mr. Patterson spoke sternly now. "You forget yourself strangely to address me in this way. I refuse to answer."

He turned on his heel and left his son. And he left a breach between them which the days and weeks widened instead of closing. Pat, feeling that it would be useless to question his father any more, did not mention Anne's name again. He picked up his old comrades and went walking, swimming, and canoeing, keeping as much away from his father as possible. Mr. Patterson busied himself with office affairs, looking forward with relief to the end of the so-longed-for vacation. In a few days, Miss Drayton would join them to take Pat with her to the Adirondacks.

At this very time, Miss Drayton, too, was bearing about a disturbed heart. She was fond of Anne and had always regretted her being sent to an orphanage, but the feeling was not strong enough to make her reclaim the child. Anne's uncle was a criminal, after all, and she herself had a strange secret. How could she have acquired those jewels but by theft?

Miss Drayton shrank from the responsibility of such a child. Perhaps the strict oversight of an asylum was best for her.

This course of thought was abruptly changed by the receipt of a letter forwarded from Washington to the Maryland village where Miss Drayton was visiting. It was a many-postmarked much-travelled letter, that had journeyed far and long before it reached her. Mailed in Liverpool, it was sent to Nantes, in care of the American consul. It had been held, under the supposition that the lady to whom it was addressed might come to the city and ask for mail sent there for safe keeping. Finally, the unclaimed letter was sent to the American emba.s.sy at Paris. There it tarried awhile. Then it fell into the hands of a secretary who knew Miss Drayton, and he sent the letter to the Washington post-office, requesting that her street and number be supplied.

This was done, and the ten-months-old letter reached Miss Drayton one July afternoon. She glanced curiously from the unfamiliar handwriting to the signature. Carey G. Mayo. Anne's uncle!

With changing countenance, she read the letter hastily.

Then she reread it once and again.

"Liverpool, England,

"20 September, 1910.

"Miss Sarah Drayton,

"Dear Madam,--I write to you on the eve of leaving the city, to commend my niece to your care. You have been so good to the child that I venture to hope you will care for her till I can relieve you of the burden. She has no near relative and I am in no position to hunt up the cousins who might take charge of her.

"I told Anne not to tell you about seeing me till you reached Nantes, for by that time, if ever, I shall be beyond the reach of officers of the law. Please keep her mother's rings that I gave to her, unless it becomes necessary to dispose of them to provide for her. If I live, I will replace her money that I squandered.

"Will you leave your address for me with the consul in Nantes? For G.o.d's sake, madam, do not betray me to the hands of the law. I am a guilty man, but I am putting myself in your power for the sake of this innocent child. Be very good to her, I implore you. Deal with her as you would be dealt with in your hour of need.

"Respectfully yours,

"Carey G. Mayo."

This was the secret then, this the mystery. How she had misjudged poor little Anne! She would hasten to take the child from the asylum and would do all possible to make up for the lonely, neglected past. She wrote at once to the consul at Nantes, asking him to forward to her Washington address any letters which came for her. Then she hastened her departure to Washington.

"I came before the time I set," she said to her brother-in-law as soon as they were alone together, "because I wish to talk to you about Anne Lewis." Mr. Patterson's brow clouded. "She is in an orphan asylum in Virginia, is she not? We must get her out. At once. Read this letter."

Mr. Patterson held the letter unopened in his hand. "The subject is an unpleasant one," he said. "I've been wanting to tell you about a conversation I had with Pat. It showed me in a startling way how the boy is developing. I don't know what to do with him. In my young days, boys were different. We submitted to our fathers. A year or two of school and camp life has changed my little Pat into a sullen, self-willed, unmanageable youngster." He repeated the conversation between Pat and himself about Anne.

"And you did not tell him where Anne is?" asked Miss Drayton.

"Certainly not," replied Mr. Patterson. "His manner was disrespectful.

If he had asked properly, I should have answered him. Of course I had no objection to telling him."

"Ah," murmured Miss Drayton. "I hope he didn't think you meant to keep him ignorant of Anne's whereabouts."

"Of course not," said Mr. Patterson, indignantly.

"Children get queer little notions in their queer little heads sometimes," said Miss Drayton. "I confess, brother, I think you've done wrong. And I've done wrong. We could have given this orphan child a home and care--and we did not."

Her brother-in-law replied that orphan asylums were established to relieve such cases.