CHAPTER XIX

A DISTURBING LETTER

Then the days came when Patty could see anybody and everybody who called upon her. When she could be downstairs in the library or the big cheery living-room, and, as she expressed it, be “folks” once more.

Still flowers were sent to her, still candies and fruit and dainty delicacies arrived in boxes and baskets, and friends sent books, pictures, and letters. Her mail was voluminous, so much so that Nurse Adams who still tarried, was pressed into service as amanuensis and general secretary.

The men had begun to be allowed to call, and Patty saw Cameron and Channing, who happened to call first.

“My, but it’s good to gaze on your haughty beauty again!” said Chick; “I’ve missed you more than tongue can tell!”

“Me too,” said Kit. “I wanted to telephone, but they wouldn’t let me. Said I was too near and dear to be heard without being seen,—like the children, or whoever it is.”

“I wish you had,” and Patty laughed. “I was longing to babble over a telephone, as we used to do, Kit.”

“Yes, in the early days of our courtship, when we were twenty-one!”

“Speak for yourself, John! I’ll leave it to Chick,—_do_ I look twenty-one!”

“I should say not! You look sweet sixteen, or thereabouts.”

He was right, for Patty did look adorably young and sweet. She had on a Frenchy tea-gown of pale green silk, bubbling over with tulle frills of the same shade, touched here and there with tiny rosebuds. A fetching cap of matching materials, was, Nan declared, a mere piece of affectation, but it accented her invalidism, and was vastly becoming. Her face, still pale from her illness, was of a waxen hue, but a warm pink had begun to glow in her cheeks and her blue eyes were as twinkling and roguish as ever.

“And what’s more,” Patty went on, “I won’t be twenty-one till next May,—and that’s ages away yet.”

“Yes, about half a year!” retorted Kit, “so I’m not so very far out, my little old lady! Did you get all the tokens I sent you?”

“Guess I did. I’m acknowledging ’em up as fast as I can. I had such oodles of stuff. I begrudge the flowers that came while I was too lost to the world to see them, but enough have come since to make up. You’ll get your receipts in due time.”

“Thanks. I was afraid mine were lost in the shuffle. I say, Patty, when can you go out for a spin?”

“Not this week. Next, maybe.”

“Go with me first?”

“No, me,” put in Chick. “I’ve a limousine, he has only a runabout.”

“Lots more fun in a runabout. Besides, I asked you first.”

“What fun!” cried Patty, clapping her hands. “It’s like a dance. I’m going to have a programme. Wait, here’s one.”

Patty found an old dance programme in the desk near her, and Kit kindly essayed to rub off the names. Then with his fountain pen he wrote over the dances, “Limousine Ride.” “Runabout Spin.” “Walk.” “Skate.” “Opera.” “Dance.” “Matinée,” and a host of other pleasures to which Patty might reasonably expect to be invited soon.

But she would only allow them one each, and after they had written their names after the motor-car rides, they were shooed away by ever watchful Nan, who would not allow Patty to become overtired.

Then, one morning, in the mail came a communication from Mrs. Van Reypen’s lawyer. It informed Patty of the legacy left her. As Mrs. Van Reypen had said, there was a bequest of fifty thousand dollars to Patty herself, and another fifty thousand in trust for a fund for a Children’s Home. The details of the institution were left entirely to Patty’s discretion, and she was instructed, if in need of more funds, to apply to Philip Van Reypen.

Also was enclosed a note which Mrs. Van Reypen had written and directed to be given to Patty after her death.

“I’m afraid to open it, Nan,” said Patty, trembling as she looked at the sealed epistle.

“I don’t wonder you feel so, dear. Let me read it first.”

Gladly Patty passed it over, for she had no secrets from Nan, and her nerves were not yet as strong as before her illness.

Nan read it, and then said. “You need have no fear, Patty, it’s a dear note. Listen:

“My Dear Little Patty:

“I am afraid I made you sorrowful when I talked to you and urged you to promise the thing I asked of you. But don’t feel hard toward me. I have your interests at heart as well as Philip’s, and I know that what you have promised will mean your life’s happiness. Now, about the Children’s Home. If you feel that after all it is too great a tax on your time or strength to take it in charge, don’t do so. Turn it all over to some one else. You and Philip can decide on the right person for the work. But I trust you will have an interest in it, and see to it that the furnishings and little comforts are as you and I would choose were we working together. This note, dear, is to say good-bye. I shall not see you again, but I die content, knowing you will love and look after my boy. It seemed strange at first to your girl heart, but you will come to love him as your own, and your life together will be filled with joy and peace. Good-bye, my child, have a kindly remembrance in your heart for your old friend,

“LADY VAN.”

Patty was crying as Nan finished. It so brought back the fine but eccentric old lady, and so renewed that dreadful promise, that the girl was completely upset.

“You see,” she sobbed, “I’ve got to marry him. This is like a voice from the grave, holding me to my vow. Isn’t it, Nan?”

“Patty, look here. Do you want to marry Phil, or don’t you?”

At the quick, sharp question, Patty looked up with a start.

“Honest, Nan, I don’t know.”

“Then you ought to find out. It’s this way, Patty. If you do want to marry him, or if you are willing to, there’s no use in fussing over this promise business. If you don’t, and if you are sure you don’t, then you must break that promise. But, you’ve got to be sure first.”

“How can I be sure?”

“Is there anybody else you care for?”

“N—no.”

“Kit Cameron is very much in love with you, Patty. He asked me when you were ill, if I thought he had a chance. Has he?”

“Not the ghost of a chance! Kit’s an old dear, and I like him a heap, but he’s a worse flirt than I am. Mercy, Nan, I wouldn’t marry him for a minute!”

“Chick Channing?”

“No. He’s a lovely boy to play around with, but not to take for a life partner. Oh, well, I s’pose it’ll have to be Phil, after all.”

“Your father and I would like that.”

“And Mrs. Van Reypen seemed to think she’d like it; and I feel quite sure Phil would like it; and it doesn’t matter about little old me!”

“Patty! stop talking like that! You know nobody wants you to do a thing you don’t want to do! And don’t get mad at your Nan, who has only your best interests at heart!”

“’Deed I won’t! I’m a brute! A big, ugly, horrid brute! Nansome, you’re my good angel. Now, let’s drop this subject for a time,—or I’ll get so nervous I’ll fly to the moon!”

“Of course you will! And you’re not going to be bothered out of your life, either. You put it all out of your mind, and come with me, out for a ridy-by. Then back and have a nice little nap. Then a ’normous big luncheon; and then dress yourself all up pretty for callers.”

“What an entrancing programme! Nan, sometimes I think you’re a genius! I sure do!”

The enticing programme was carried out, and that afternoon Van Reypen came to call. It was the first time he had seen Patty since her illness, and she rather dreaded the meeting.

But Philip was so cheery and kindly that Patty felt at ease at once.

“Dear little girl,” he said, taking both her hands, “how good to see you looking so well. I’ve been _so_ anxious about you.”

“Needn’t be any more,” said Patty, smiling up at him. “I’m all well now, and never going to be sick again. But I’ve been feeling very sorry for you, Phil.”

“Thank you, dear. It is hard, the old house seems so empty and lonely. But Aunty Van rather wanted to go, and she bade me think of her only with pleasant memories, and not with mourning.”

“She was always thoughtful of others’ feelings. And, Phil, how she did love you.”

“She did. And you, too; why, I never supposed she could care for any one outside our family as she cared for you.”

“She was awfully kind to me.”

“And you were to her. You were mighty good, Patty, to put up with her queer little notions the way you always did. And I say, do you know what she told me just before she died? She told me that you said you would learn to love me. Oh, Patty, did you? I don’t doubt her word, but sometimes she thought a thing was so, when really it was only her strong wish. So I _must_ ask you. I didn’t mean to ask you today,—I meant to wait till you are strong and well again. But, darling, you look so sweet and dear, and I haven’t seen you for so long, I can’t wait. Tell me, Patty, _did_ you tell Aunty Van that?”

Patty hesitated. A yes or no here meant so much,—and yet she couldn’t put him off.

“Tell me,” he urged; “you must have said something of the sort. Even if she exaggerated, she wouldn’t make it _all_ up. What did you tell her, dear?”

The two were alone in the library. The dusk was just beginning,—the lights not yet turned on. Patty, in a great easy chair, sat near the wood fire, which had burned down to a few glowing embers. Van Reypen, restless, had been stalking about the room. Now, he came near to her, and pushing up an ottoman, he sat down by her.

“You must tell me,” he said, in a low, tense voice. “I can’t bear it if you don’t. I won’t ask you anything more,—I’ll go right away, if you say so,—but, Patty, dearest, tell me if you told Aunty Van that you would learn to love me.”

Phil’s dark, handsome face looked into her own. With a feeling as of a tightening round her heart, Patty realised that his eyes were very like his aunt’s, that their impelling gaze would yet make her say yes. And, fascinated, she gazed back, until, coerced, she breathed a low “yes.”

Then, appalled at the look that came to his face she covered her eyes with her hands, whispering, “Go away, Phil. You said you’d go away if I wanted you to, and I do want you to. Please go.”

Van Reypen leaned nearer. “I will go, Little Sweetheart. I can bear to go now. You have made me so happy with that one little word. The rest can wait. Good-bye, you will call me back soon, I know.”

Bending down he dropped a light kiss on the curly golden hair, and went away, happy in the knowledge of Patty’s love, and almost amused at what he thought was her shyness in acknowledging it.

When she heard the street door close, Patty looked up. Her face was white, and she was nervously trembling.

“Nan,” she called; “Nan!”

Nan came in from another room. “What is it, Patty, dear? Where is Philip?”

“He’s gone. Oh, Nan, I kept my promise.”

“You did! What do you mean? Are you engaged to Philip? Then why did he go?”

Patty laughed, but it was a little hysterical. “I sent him away. No, we’re not engaged, that is, I don’t think we are. But I suppose we will be.”

“Patty, behave yourself. Brace up, now, and tell me what you’re talking about. Any one would think getting engaged was a funeral or some such occasion!”

Patty shook herself, and smiled at Nan.

“I am a goose, I suppose. I don’t know whether I’m glad or sorry, but I told Phil I’d learn to love him.”

“H’m, I don’t see as you’ve bound yourself to anything very desperate! You can doubtless learn, if you study hard enough.”

“Don’t tease me, Nan. I’m not sure I want to learn.”

“Then don’t! Patty, sometimes you’re perfectly ridiculous!”

“Huh! Just ’cause _you_ happened to get a perfectly splendid man like my father, and didn’t have to think twice, you think _everybody_ can decide in a hurry!”

Nan burst into laughter. “Oh, you are _too_ funny!” she cried, and Patty had to laugh, too.

“I suppose I am,” she said, dolefully, “to you. But to me it doesn’t seem funny a bit.”

“Forgive me, dear,” said Nan, repentantly; “I won’t laugh any more. Tell me about it.”

“It’s that old promise thing. Mrs. Van told Phil I had told her I would learn to love him, and he asked me if I did. And I had to say yes. And of course I couldn’t tell him she _made_ me promise. Now, could I?”

“I don’t know. It _is_ a little serious, Patty, unless, as I said before, unless you want to learn to love him. Do you?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I wish to goodness he wouldn’t bother me about it!”

“He sha’n’t! Patty, it is a shame for you to be bothered if you don’t want to be. Now, I’ll help you out. I’ll tell Phil, myself, that you’re not well enough yet to be troubled about serious matters, and he must wait till you are. He won’t be angry, I can explain it to him.”

“I don’t care whether he’s angry or not. It isn’t that, Nan. It’s that just the little bit I said to him, he takes to mean—everything.”

“Of course he does, Patty. You can’t tell a man you’ll learn to love him unless you mean that you expect to succeed and that you’ll marry him. What else _could_ you mean?”

“Of course, if I said it of my own accord. But, don’t you see, Nan, that I only said it because I promised her I would, and it doesn’t seem fair, that I should have to say it because she made me.”

“You’re right, Patty, it _doesn’t_. And you ought not to be held by that infamous performance! I just begin to see it as it is, and I am not going to have you tortured. You don’t really love Phil, or you’d know it; and this ‘promise’ and ‘learning to love him’ is all foolishness. I’m going to tell him, or have Fred do so, of that promise business, and then if he wants to ask you again, and let you answer of your own will, and not by anybody’s coercion, very well.”

“Oh, Nan, what a duck you are! What would I ever do without you! Will you really do that? I tried to tell Phil how it was, but he was so—so——”

“Precipitate?”

“Yes, that; but I meant more that he was so glad to have me say that _yes_, that it seemed too bad to tell him that awful story about his aunt.”

“It _is_ an awful story, but he ought to know it. Why, he’d rather know it. You two couldn’t live all your lives with that secret between you—could you?”

“Of course we couldn’t.”

“And then, too, it isn’t fair to him. If you’re answering his question under duress,—I never did know what duress meant,—but anyway, if you’re answering his questions at his aunt’s commands, he certainly ought to know it. It’s wrong to let him think it’s your own answer, if it isn’t.”

“That’s so,” and Patty looked greatly relieved. “Say, Nan, when can you tell him?”

“Oh, I can’t do it. I’ll get your father to. He’s the proper one, anyway.”

“Yes, I guess he is,” sighed Patty. “Oh, what do poor little girls do who haven’t such kind parents? And now I wonder if it isn’t time for my beef tea!”