Honey-Sweet Part 17

Miss Drayton did not argue the question. She said softly: "We failed in the trust that Emily left us--our duty to her little adopted daughter."

Mr. Patterson was silent. He opened and read Mr. Mayo's letter. Then he folded it carefully and handed it back. "I will go to-morrow and get this child from the asylum," he said.

"Suppose you let me go--with Pat," suggested Miss Drayton. "And, brother, talk to him. Explain matters."

But he shook his head. "There is nothing for me to explain. You and I misunderstood things. I am sorry we did not know all this at first. Then we would have acted differently. But it is not for Pat to judge my course. I refuse to defend myself to a young cub."

CHAPTER XX

"What are you smiling at, Pat?" Miss Drayton asked her nephew sitting beside her in the parlor car. They had pa.s.sed through the tunnel and crossed the beautiful Potomac Park and the shining river. Washington Monument, like a finger pointing skyward, was fading in the distance.

"What amuses you, Pat?" repeated his aunt.

"Can't help grinning like a possum," answered Pat, with a chuckle.

"Every mile is taking us nearer Anne. How she'll jump and squeal 'oo-ee'--when she sees us! And--look here, Aunt Sarah--" he glanced cautiously around to be sure that he was not observed, then opened his travelling-bag and displayed a doll's dress--blue silk with frills and lace ruffles. "I bought it in an F Street shop yesterday--for Honey-Sweet, you know," he explained. "Gee! It'll tickle Anne for me to give that doll a present. She'll--" he whistled a bar of ragtime.

Miss Drayton laughed heartily. The gift set aside so completely the lapse of time that she could fancy she saw Anne running to meet them, her tawny hair flying in the wind and Honey-Sweet clasped in her arms.

According to its habit, the Southern train was behind time. Instead of early afternoon, it was twilight when Miss Drayton and Pat reached their station. Dusk was deepening into drizzling night when their cab set them down at the gate of the 'Home.' They were ushered through the prim hall into the superintendent's office. Miss Farlow rose from her desk.

"You are in charge of this inst.i.tution?" asked Miss Drayton.

"I am Miss Farlow, the superintendent."

"I am Miss Drayton from Washington City. This is my nephew, Patrick Patterson. We are friends of Anne Lewis."

"You have news of her?" asked Miss Farlow, starting eagerly forward.

"News? We have come to see her--to take her home with us--to give her a home," explained Miss Drayton.

Miss Farlow sank back on her chair, and buried her face in her hands.

The quiet, reserved woman was weeping bitterly. "If we only had her, if we only had her!" she moaned. "Poor little motherless, fatherless one!

Oh, it was my fault. I failed in my duty. I tried to do right by her.

G.o.d knows I did."

"What is the matter? What do you mean?" Miss Drayton was frightened. Was the child dead? injured? She dared not ask. "Anne--where is she?" she faltered at last.

"I don't know." Miss Farlow was recovering her self-control and struggling to speak steadily. "She started on a holiday trip with some friends. On the way she disappeared. Absolutely disappeared. No one knows where nor when. The nurse saw her last at Westcot, a few stations from Lynchburg. The train was in the city before she was missed."

"We will find her. We must," cried Miss Drayton.

Miss Farlow was hopeless. "Not a stone has been left unturned. That was two weeks ago. The trainmen were all questioned. Telegrams were sent to every station. Mr. Marshall has spared neither trouble nor expense. No one saw her get off. There is no trace of her. None. If the earth had opened and swallowed her, she could not have disappeared more completely. When you came in--strangers--and mentioned her name--my one thought and hope was that you had found her." Miss Farlow sobbed. "I think of her day and night. A little lost child! homeless! friendless!

all alone!"

"Don't, don't!" Pat put up his hand as if to ward off a blow. He hurried from the room and crouched down in a corner of the cab, staring out into the wet night. Somewhere in the darkness--in the rain--homeless--friendless--all alone--was little Anne.

Surely there was some clew that they might follow to reach the child.

Miss Drayton and Pat went to 'Roseland' to hear the story from Mrs.

Marshall's own lips. She could give them no help. She and her husband had done all that was possible. They would have done this for the child's own sake. They were doubly bound to do it for the sake of their sons who were heart-broken about Anne. Arthur was always begging them to let Anne come back to see him. Dunlop understood that she was lost and refused to be comforted.

Miss Drayton and Pat went into the nursery and found the children at supper.

"I know, it's late, ma'am," said Martha, helplessly; "but Master Dunlop he wouldn't let me have it afore. Do eat now, Master Dunlop. Here's this nice strawberry jam."

Dunlop took up the spoon, then paused to ask, "Do you reckon Anne has any strawberry jam for her supper?"

Pat shook his head.

Dunlop's lip quivered. "Then I don't want any. Take it away, Martha,"

and he pushed aside the spoon.

"Do with Anne wath here," lisped Arthur. "I got her thweater yolled up smooth to keep for her. Whyn't she come?"

No one could tell him.

Miss Farlow wished Miss Drayton, according to Mr. Mayo's request, to take charge of the child's jewels. But Miss Drayton refused.

"You keep them, please," she urged. "If--when Anne comes back, it will be to you. She does not know where we are. Oh, I cannot bear the sight of those miserable jewels," she exclaimed. "The mere thought of them reminds me how I misjudged our poor child."

There was nothing she could do in Richmond and she hurried back to Washington to consult her brother-in-law. How unlike the merry journey of the day before was the silent, miserable trip!

"Don't take it so hard, dear boy," Miss Drayton said, clasping Pat's hand which lay limp in hers a minute and was then withdrawn. "We may find her yet,--well and happy."

She spoke in a half-hearted way and Pat shook his head hopelessly.

"She's been gone two weeks," he said, "and no sign of her. I think about her--like that woman said--homeless--friendless--all alone--a little lost child--in the wet and dark, like last night." There was a moment's silence. Then Pat spoke again: "Aunt Sarah, I shall never feel the same to father. It is his fault. He ought not to have put her there. He ought to have told me where she was. If he had told me when I asked him--that was three weeks ago, you know."

Miss Drayton reasoned, coaxed, entreated. "Think of your mother, Pat,"

she said gently. "How you would grieve her!"

"I do think of her," returned Pat. "She would never have acted so. And she would never have let father send Anne away."

Miss Drayton sighed. Was it not sad and pitiful enough to have that poor little orphan lost? Must her dead sister's husband be estranged from his only son?

Pat stood silent while Miss Drayton told his father the story of their journey. Mr. Patterson listened--surprised at first, then vexed. Now and then, he interrupted with brief, pointed questions. The answers left him anxious, distressed. Presently he took off his eyegla.s.ses and put his hand up as if to shade his eyes from the light. When the tale was finished, there was a brief silence. A gentle breeze rustled the elm-tree at the window. A carriage clattered past. A newsboy shouting "Papers!" ran down the quiet street.

Mr. Patterson dropped his hand. His lashes were wet with tears. "Lord!"

he said in a broken voice. "Can I ever forgive myself?"

Pat started forward with tears in his eyes. "Father!" he cried.

"Dear--old--dad! We'll find her yet."

Mr. Patterson seized the outstretched hand and held it close. "G.o.d grant it," he said. "My son, my son!"