Honey-Sweet Part 18

CHAPTER XXI

Meanwhile, where was Anne? Was she as forlorn and miserable in reality as her friends fancied? Let us see.

After she slipped un.o.bserved from the railway coach, she followed the familiar footpath in its leisurely windings across meadow and up-hill.

It led her to a tumble-down fence, surrounding a s.p.a.cious, deep-turfed lawn, with native forest trees--oak, elm, and chestnut--growing where nature had set them. On the crest of the hill, rose a square, old-fas.h.i.+oned house, dear and familiar. Home, home at last!

Anne pushed through the gate, hanging ajar on one hinge, and hurried across the lawn. Even in the twilight, she could see that the microfila roses by the front porch were still blooming--they had been in bloom when she went away--and the Cherokee rose on the summer-house was starred with cream-white blossoms. From the windows of the old sitting-room, a light was s.h.i.+ning and Anne hastened toward the latticed side-porch which opened into the room. As she approached the steps, a lank, clay-colored dog came snarling toward her. Two or three puppies ran out, barking furiously. Anne stopped, too frightened to cry out.

The sitting-room door opened and a thick-set man in s.h.i.+rt-sleeves came out on the porch. He peered into the darkness.

"Who's that?" he asked. Anne, fearfully expecting to be devoured by the yelping curs, could not answer. "Who's out there, say?" repeated the man. Anne took two or three steps toward the protection of the light and the open door. The man answered a question from within. "Don't know.

It's a child," he said, catching sight of Anne, and going to meet her.

"Them pups won't bite. Get away, Red Coat. She'll nip you if she gits a chance. Come right on in, honey. Whyn't you holler at the gate?"

Anne followed the strange man through the door that he opened hospitably wide. It was and was not the dear room that she remembered. There were the four big windows, the panelled walls, the bookcase with diamond-paned doors, built in a recess beside the chimney. But where was the gilt-framed mirror that hung over the mantel-piece? And the silver candlesticks with crystal pendants? And the old bra.s.s fender and andirons? And the s.h.i.+ny mahogany table with bra.s.s-tipped claw feet? And the little spindle-legged tables with their burdens of books, vases, and pictures? And the tinkly little old piano? And the carved mahogany davenport? And the sewing-table, ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that stood always by the south window? And the quaint old engravings and colored prints? All these were gone. Instead of the threadbare Brussels carpet patterned with huge bouquets of flowers, there was a striped rag carpet. There were a few rush-bottomed chairs, a box draped with red calico on which stood a water-bucket and a wash-pan, a cook-stove before the fireplace, and in the middle of the room a table covered with a red cloth, on which was set forth a supper of coffee, corn-cakes, fried bacon, and cold cabbage and potatoes. A fat, freckle-faced girl, a little larger than Anne, and two boys of about twelve and fourteen were seated at the supper-table. Beside the stove stood a stout, fair woman in a soiled gingham ap.r.o.n. Their four pairs of wide-open, light-blue eyes stared at Anne.

"Where you pick up that child, Peter Collins?" demanded the woman, neglecting her frying cakes.

"She jes' come to the door," responded Mr. Collins.

"My sakes!" exclaimed his wife. "Whose child is you? Whar you come from, here after dark, this way?"

"Where's Aunt Charity?" asked Anne.

"Aunt Charity? Don't no Aunt Charity live here. This is Mr. Collins's house,--Peter Collins. Is you lost?--Peter, you Peter Collins! I want know who on earth this child is you done brung here. You always doing some outlandish thing! Who is she?"

"How the thunder I know?" muttered her husband, pulling at his beard.

Anne stood bewildered. This was home and yet it was not home. Her lips quivered, she clasped Honey-Sweet tighter, and turned toward the door to go--where? Everything turned black around her, the floor seemed to give way under her feet, and in another moment she and Honey-Sweet were in a forlorn little heap on the floor and she was sobbing as if her heart would break.

"I want home! I want somebody!" she wailed piteously.

Mrs. Collins sat down on the floor and drew the weeping child into her arms.

"Thar, thar, honey! don't you cry! don't you cry!" she said soothingly.

"Po' little thing! Le' me take off your hat! Why, yo' little hands is jest as cold! Lizzie, set the kettle on front of the stove. Jake, you put some wood in the fire. Now, honey, you set right in this rocking-chair by the stove and le' me wrap a shawl round you. I'll have you some cambric tea and fry you some hot cakes in a jiffy. A good supper'll het you up. I'd take shame to myself, Peter Collins, if I was you"--she scowled at her husband as she bustled about--"a gre't big man like you skeerin' a po' little thing like that! What diff'rence do it make who she is or whar she come from? Anybody with two eyes in his head can see she's jest a po' little lost thing. You gre't gawk, you!"

"What is I done, I'd like to know?" inquired Mr. Collins, helplessly.

Anne had not realized that she was hungry until Mrs. Collins set before her a plateful of hot crisp cakes. The good woman spread them with b.u.t.ter and opened a jar of 'company' sweetmeats,--crisp watermelon rind, cut in leaf, star, and fish shapes. While serving supper, Mrs. Collins chattered on in a soft, friendly voice.

"I see how 'twas. You knowed this place before we come here. We been here two year come next Christmas. Done bought the place. Fust time any of our folks is ever owned land. Always been renters and share-hands, movin' to new places soon as we wore out ol' ones. I tell my ol' man it's goin' to come mighty hard on him now that he's got a place of his own that's got to be tooken care of."

By this time, the color had come back to Anne's face and she was smiling and stroking the sleek black-and-white cat that had jumped in her lap.

"What is the little girl's name, mammy?" asked Lizzie. Having finished her supper, she was standing at her mother's side, staring with wide eyes at Anne and shyly rolling a corner of her ap.r.o.n in her fingers.

"Sh-sh-sh," whispered Mrs. Collins. "'Tain't perlite to ask questions.

You make her cry again.--But, Peter, I'm worried to think maybe her folks is missed her and lookin' for her. You have to take the lantern presen'ly and go and tell 'em she's here."

"Whar is I gwine? And who I gwi' tell?" asked Mr. Collins.

"Peter Collins, you is the most unreasonable man I ever see in my life!

You sho ain't goin' to worry the po' little thing and make her cry again, askin' all kinds of questions. You jest got to hunt up her folks.

They'll be worried to death, missing a child like this, and at night, too."

But Anne was now ready to explain cheerfully. "I haven't any folks--not any real folks of my own now," she said. "Mother is dead and father is dead. Uncle Carey got lost, I reckon. I used to live here. Mr.

Patterson took me to a--a orphan 'sylum, Mrs. Marshall calls it. The name over the door is 'Home for Girls.' This evening I was on the train with Mrs. Marshall and I knew the place when we came to the water-tank.

And I wanted to be here. So we came, Honey-Sweet and I. I thought the dog was going to bite me."

"You hear that, Peter Collins?" exclaimed Mrs. Collins. "Now wasn't that smart of her? She knowed the place and got off the train by herself and come right up to the house. And Red Coat might 'a' bit the po' child traipsin' 'long in the dark. You got to shut that dog up nights," she said, as if every evening was to bring a little lost Anne wandering into danger. "To think of puttin' a po' little motherless, fatherless thing in a 'sylum," she continued. "Many homes as thar is in this world!--Le'

me fry you another plateful of nice brown cakes, honey, and get you some damson preserves--maybe you like them better'n sweetmeats. Or would you choose raspberry jam?" She had thrown open the diamond-paned doors of the bookcase, now used as a pantry, and was looking over the rows of jars.

"I couldn't eat another mouthful of anything; indeed, I couldn't,"

insisted Anne.

"I wish you would," sighed Mrs. Collins. "It gives me a feelin' to see yo' po' thin little face--no wider'n a knitting needle."

Anne laughed. "I ate ever so many cakes. They were so good--as good as Aunt Charity's. Please--where is Aunt Charity?"

"Aunt Charity who?" asked Mrs. Collins.

"Our old Aunt Charity and Uncle Richard that used to live here."

"Oh! You mean them old darkies. They moved away the year we come here.

They--"

"Mammy, I want to know her name," insisted Lizzie, in an undertone.

"And I want to see her doll in my own hands."

"My name is Anne Lewis," Anne informed her. "My doll is named Mrs. Emily Patterson but I call her Honey-Sweet."

"That's a mighty pretty dress," said Lizzie, admiringly.

"I made it, all but the b.u.t.tonholes," Anne answered proudly. "Martha did those."

"Do her shoes really, truly come off?" asked Lizzie.

"Yes, they do. And her stockings, too. Look here."

The two girls played happily together with Honey-Sweet until Mrs.

Collins declared that Anne was tired and tucked her away with Lizzie in a trundle-bed.

"I dunno when I've set up so late," the good woman said to her husband, as she wound up the clock. "It's near nine o'clock. But one thing I tell you, Peter Collins, afore I get a mite of sleep--n.o.body's going to send that po' child back to the 'sylum she's runned away from. Tain't no use for you to say a word."

"Is I said a word?" asked Mr. Collins.