Polly in New York
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“Oh, how can we part from him!” sighed Eleanor, wiping an eye, as she pictured the lonely rooms.
“Yes – ” sighed Polly, mournfully. “That’s the worst of having a dog or a baby that you become so fond of.”
“But you will see Billy three nights a week, and you never could have kept him for yourselves, you know,” said Mr. Fabian.
Thanksgiving Day Martha seemed all upset. The idea of moving the baby to a new home, and perhaps not being welcome, made her cry softly, now and then. The little family at the Studio, instead of being very grateful for all the blessings they had had during the past year, went about looking forlorn and miserable.
They went to the Latimers for dinner that noon, and left Martha with the baby. It had been planned that they would get back home by eight o’clock and accompany their baby-gift over to Mr. Dalken’s apartment. Billy would be placed in bed where his new foster father would find him, and then would come the joy of it all.
The plans worked out as expected to a certain degree. Mr. Dalken went up to the Ashbys for dinner, and a little after eight o’clock, a mournful procession wended its way from the Studio door. Martha carried Billy carefully. Polly and Eleanor carried the tub, chair, and other articles of use for the baby. Anne carried the bundles of clothing, and Mrs. Stewart carried the milk-warmer, the other food-equipment, and the extra blankets.
Mr. Dalken’s chauffeur opened the door to admit the visitors, but when he saw the burdens the ladies carried, he was speechless. Eleanor tried to explain that they had a new boy for Mr. Dalken, but Henri seemed not to appreciate the fact.
Billy was gurgling and trying to get his active fists out of the quilted blanket, but Martha held him firmly until she had him in the bedroom where Mr. Dalken slept.
“We are going to leave him right in the middle of this big bed, Henri, so his new father will find him when he comes in to-night,” explained Eleanor, arranging the baby’s bedding on the large expanse of bed-spread.
Billy was arrayed for the night, and everyone kissed him tearfully, as if he was about to be placed in his coffin. Then Martha gave him a drink of warm milk and placed him in his blankets.
Hardly had they tucked him up, before the bell at the entrance rang imperatively. Henri glanced distractedly at the baby and then at the other visitors, before he turned to answer the call. It rang a second time before he opened the door.
“Let’s turn down the light and hide behind the velour portières,” whispered Anne, anxiously.
The five guilty members of the surprise-party quickly hid themselves as best they could, but not so soon, but that they heard Henri returning. He was talking, and other voices were replying.
“I donno why the missee’s come in an’ fetch a bebby. Dey say ‘He a big surprise,’ Mr. Dalken.”
To the amazement of the hidden ones, Mr. Dalken’s voice now replied: “Never mind, Henri. I’ll be out with my visitors, in a moment. I only want to get a handkerchief from the dresser.”
The five culprits saw him switch up the lights and they then heard Billy welcome the unusual privilege with a gurgle. Not a sound came from the man who must have heard the baby-voice and seen the occupant of his massive four-poster.
Polly could stand it no longer. She had to peep out at what was going on. The first thing she saw, was Eleanor’s head showing from the side of the other portière. Both girls watched the scene with bated breath.
Mr. Dalken stood beside the bed, looking down at the little bundle that made a dent in the middle of his comfortable mattress. Billy was waving his fists invitingly, as if to say, “Come on and fight!”
As the two girls watched him, Mr. Dalken smiled and said: “So you are Billy Martin, are you?”
The two eaves-droppers glanced at each other in consternation. “How and why did Mr. Dalken call their baby Billy Martin?”
“Well, Billy, suppose we go out and see what your Daddy thinks of you. For my part, I say you’re just about perfect.” As Mr. Dalken spoke, he carefully lifted the willing baby from the bed and cuddled him in his arms. Then he went from the room.
“Polly!” hissed Eleanor, anxiously, “did you hear what he said?”
“S-sh! let us follow and see what’s the matter. Someone came in with Mr. Dalken, you know,” returned Polly in a low voice.
Mrs. Stewart and Anne now crept from behind the heavy window curtains and tip-toed after Polly and Eleanor. And, last of all, Martha came from behind the door and followed in the wake of the other four. Then they heard Mr. Dalken talking.
“Well, here’s the boy, but how he ever got into my rooms I cannot say. Mrs. Ashby will have to explain that, in a minute, as she is the one who seemed to know where to find Martha and the baby.”
Martha was still in the hall and could not see who was in the living-room with Mr. Dalken, but the four conspirators now stood staring at the group in the center of the lighted room.
Mr. and Mrs. Ashby were seated in comfortable armchairs, smiling happily at the two standing men and about to make the baby comfortable. He had been transferred from Mr. Dalken’s arms to those of a younger man who was trembling with joy at beholding Billy’s smiling little face.
“There, now, Martin. Isn’t he worth living for? You said you wanted to die, when you found your wife was gone. But let me tell you, my boy, this baby ought to make you brace up.” Mr. Dalken patted the strange young man on the shoulder, and just then Martha burst into the room.
“Jimmy! Oh, Jimmy – is it you, or is it someone who looks like my dead Jimmy?”
“Aunt Martha – Dear Aunt Martha – it is your own Jimmy. I was a long time coming home, but here I am at last!”
Then Polly and Eleanor learned the true story about their precious Billy who was, according to them, to have adopted Mr. Dalken for a father.
“Girls, I appreciate your great sacrifice to try and make me happy, for I have heard from the Ashbys how much you wanted to keep Billy, but you felt that he ought to belong to me. Seeing that he came so near to being mine, I shall always take a great interest in him and his relatives,” began Mr. Dalken, while Jimmy Martin and Martha went into the other room to be alone with the baby.
“You see, Mrs. Ashby is at the bottom of this plot and having roped in her husband to believe just as she did, the next step was to make the whole plan seem accidental.
“So, when Martha was left with the baby, she called on Mrs. Ashby for help. Seeing that the boy had brown eyes and was named Billy, my anxious friend decided that he was what I ought to have to cheer me. Martha was boarded in a country home until I prepared to go west on my business trip.
“Just about that time, you found an unknown babe on your door-step, but had we been able to look behind the scenes, I think you would have seen the Ashby’s car down on the corner, and Martha anxiously waiting to see if you took Billy in, all right.
“After that, Billy made his own way with you people, as he is apt to make it with everyone. And what was so natural, as that you should fall in with Mr. Fabian’s well-learned lesson. The Ashbys made him memorize just what to say and to do it every day.
“All went as had been planned, and my dear friends here were so pleased with themselves at the little scheme, that they planned to return home with me to-night and see how I liked the baby-surprise. But this is where an unexpected and unknown actor entered upon the stage.
“James Martin was not killed in battle. He was wounded and taken prisoner by the Germans. He was so dangerously injured that he was left to die in a small town in the interior. But he managed to pull through, and after many months of convalescence, he worked his way from Germany back to Paris.
“It took several months more to identify him and get a passport for him to America. When he went to his old home town to find his wife and child, he learned that one was dead and the other was taken away by the aunt. The shock sent him to the county hospital again, and it was several months before he could get out to start a hunt for his boy.
“He learned where Martha had gone, and to-night, James called at the house to ask Mrs. Ashby if she knew anything about his boy and aunt. I happened to be in the hall when he came in.
“So here we are, girls; you lose a protegé and I lose a boy.”
“Oh, but James wins back his boy again!” cried Polly, delightedly.
“I want to know, Mr. Dalken,” demanded Eleanor, frowning, “did Ruth Ashby know the truth about this when she told us that yarn about Martha?”
Mr. Dalken laughed. “No, girls. Poor Ruth is as upset about it as you could wish her to be. She wants me to adopt Billy, anyway, even with his real father on hand to claim him. I really think Mrs. Ashby is the one we have to put through the third degree on this whole plot.”
Mrs. Ashby looked up and smiled. “Well, I told the truth about the matter, didn’t I? But I refrained from telling Ruth that Martha was the same woman who was aunt to Billy, and I withheld the facts that Billy was the same baby that you girls found on your door-step – that’s all.”
“That’s all – ” laughed Mr. Dalken. “As if that was not enough! To deprive me of the son my two pet girls tried to place in my arms.”
Polly flung herself in his arms and hugged him as she said, “Nolla and I will have to adopt you ourselves, now.”
And he whispered in her ear, so only she could hear: “You haven’t any idea how happy you girls make me. I have found something in life worth while, since I found all of these good friends.”
Then Mrs. Ashby said: “Dalk, you have been hunting for a reliable man and wife to take charge of your apartment, so I think it is Providence that sent Martha and James to you. You will have admirable help in them and little Billy, too.”
CHAPTER XVII – POLLY AND ELEANOR LEAVE FOR EUROPE
“I do declare! here it is the first of May, and it seems as if it were but yesterday that we came back to New York to study,” exclaimed Eleanor, as Polly and she were returning from art class one evening.
“And we are no more decided about what we shall do this Summer, than we were last Fall. If only Dad would consent to our joining the Ashbys and Mr. Fabian on the European trip, in June,” returned Polly.
“I’m glad father says I may go if your father consents. Of course we shall have to go, some time or other, Polly, before we could settle down as experienced decorators; but this is a fine opportunity – to be members of a party of appreciative people such as is seldom offered to young beginners as we are.”
“Eleanor, have you thought of what we shall do, next year of school, if Anne marries John? You know, Mrs. Stewart says she is going back to Denver to keep house for Paul, as he will graduate with the other boys, next month.”
“Uh-huh! John and Tom will settle down at Pebbly Pit to superintend the mine and jewel cliffs, and Paul will join the survey crew in Denver. I suppose my brother Pete will be hanging about them, somewhere, doing odd jobs, now and then.”
Eleanor spoke in a half-humorous tone, but Polly was in earnest.
“Well, then, if Anne is John’s wife, and Mrs. Stewart in Denver, where do we fit in?”
“I’ve thought it all out, Polly – never fear! You see Mr. Fabian expects to bring his wife and daughter back to America this year, as Nancy has finished her art studies abroad. If we make ourselves agreeable to them, and then hint gently, on the trip back home, that we have no place to live in, the coming winter, they’ll take us right in with them. How’d you like that!”
“Oh, it would be great, Nolla, but would it be quite the proper thing for us to do – to throw ourselves upon their hospitality?”
“Polly, they ought to be thankful to have two such nice girls with them! To say nothing of our eventually becoming the greatest interior decorators of the present day,” exclaimed Eleanor, her well-shaped little head rearing itself in conscious pride.
Polly laughed. “Well, Nolla, we will never suffer for lack of self-esteem. Even if others declare we know nothing, you will be able to keep the family pride up to high-water mark. If we knew but one-third of all you think we do, we could take Mr. Ashby in partnership with us, now.”
“There’s another thing, Polly, that is a golden opportunity for us. The idea of having a successful decorator like Mr. Ashby plan to take us in his business when we are through school, is enough to turn anyone’s head. But not ours, Polly – we are too sensible!”
Again Polly laughed at her friend’s meekness – so-called. “Mr. Ashby may change his mind before we are ready to accept his offer. We have two years still in which to study, you know.”
“That will fly like these past two years have. Why here we are only sixteen and just see all we know!”
“Yes, and just see all we have yet to know!” retorted Polly.
“I tell you what, those Saturday mornings we spent in Mr. Ashby’s sales-rooms were a wonderful help, eh?”
“Yes; I really believe, Nolla, that I learned as much of textiles, and fabrics, by simply handling and selling the materials, as if I had given days to the study of them.”
“It was not only a brilliant idea of Mr. Fabian’s, to suggest to Mr. Ashby that Ruth and we two girls be permitted to act as clerks in his rooms, but it was as kind and generous of Mr. Ashby to take us. The way he taught us all about different factories and their best and weakest points in manufacture; the time he took to demonstrate differences in lace and silk curtains, the best style of linen for covers and draperies, the tapestries and carpets of modern factories – why, I can tell at a glance now, just whose goods I am handling.”
“Yes,” admitted Polly. “How many decorators’ assistants know the style of upholstery buttons that ought to be used on a French divan? Or what shaped button ought to go on a Turkish chair? I never dreamed that there was any difference, according to art, between a tufted wing-chair and one that was smoothly upholstered. I bet the majority of people select one or the other because they like the looks, but very few know that certain lines in a fireside chair demand tufted upholstery, and another period must never have buttons or fringe.”
“Exactly! That is what I mean, Polly, when I say I am sure we two know an awful lot about decorating, already. It is so.”
“Dear old Fabian says, this is our critical year – if we can manage to pass through the period between second and third years of study without discovering that we know it all, we may eventually hope to become average decorators,” Polly laughed.
“Pooh! We both know Mr. Fabian is a dotard about us. If anyone dares to hint that we are not as advanced as he says we are, he glares like a jealous cat over her kittens.”
Polly and Eleanor reached the Studio by this time and found Anne reading a long letter from John. She was smiling happily as she read, and Eleanor grinned charitably at her.
Polly sat down to wait till the letter was read. Then Anne glanced over at the girls.
“Well, dears, John has definitely settled everything. Tom Latimer and he are coming on to New York directly their college commencement is over. Polly’s father and mother may decide to come, but that is not yet certain. As soon as you two girls are off, we will all go back home and stay.”
“‘And they lived happily ever after,’” quoth Eleanor, teasingly.
Anne smiled. Polly seemed dissatisfied.
“What do you mean ‘as soon as you girls are off?’”
“Why, off on the European trip. The Ashbys were here to-night and it is all settled. Mr. Brewster wrote a fine letter and thanked them for their wonderful offer to chaperone you girls.”
“Oh, oh!” shouted Eleanor, springing up and throwing her arms about Polly’s neck.
Anne and her mother laughed as the impulsive girl whirled Polly around and around, until both, exhausted, fell upon the divan. Then Polly asked the question Eleanor had choked in her throat.
“What about John, Anne? Are you going to Denver or to Pebbly Pit?”
“I expect to go to Pebbly Pit, dear,” said Anne, blushing.
“No need to feel embarrassed over it, Anne,” laughed Eleanor. “It isn’t as if we had never heard of your plan. Besides we are all in the family, now – or at least we will be.”
“Where does your relationship come in, Nolla?” asked Mrs. Stewart, quizzically.
“Why, didn’t you know, Mother Stewart? I propose to become Paul’s bride, some day, but he doesn’t know it, either!” and the irrepressible girl laughed madly as she ran upstairs to her room.
Her friends in the living-room laughed also, but Polly doubted that it was said in fun. She rather suspected Eleanor of receiving many nice letters from Paul Stewart, during her second year in New York. But Eleanor kept her own secret.
As June entered and schools were all beginning their examinations, Mrs. Stewart began to clear up the rooms in the home they had occupied for two years. Anne’s and her own personal property were to be packed and sent to Denver. Polly and Eleanor’s had to be sorted and packed and stored; the winter clothing in strong moth-proof chests, and the things they proposed taking abroad with them, in small steamer trunks.
Mr. Fabian had spoken for the lease on the Studio when Mrs. Stewart’s time expired, and until then, most of the furniture could remain as it was. Polly and Eleanor were to have the two small rooms and live with the Fabians, and Mrs. Fabian had written that she would buy back the things as they stood, thus saving everyone trouble and time.
As the days of June passed, Anne had another letter from John, begging her to come to the graduation in Chicago. But Polly and Eleanor needed her in New York, as everything was in a panic preparing for the ocean voyage, and working so hard at school, too.
Before the girls knew it, therefore, the westerners were with them in New York. Mr. and Mrs. Brewster expected to see Polly off on the steamer, and John said he had unexpectedly planned to have Anne marry him before Polly sailed.
“Oh, that will be great! A wedding and a farewell party all in one,” cried Eleanor.
But John took Polly aside and whispered: “Polly, I want my only sister to witness my marriage to the best girl living, so you will have to persuade Anne to look at it as I do.”
“All right, John,” laughingly replied Polly. “I’ll do my best to make her steal my only brother from me.”
Tom Latimer joined them at this moment, and said to Polly: “You have grown so tall and look such a fine young lady, that I wonder how Anne can steal any man from you. Now if I were John, I should never want to be stolen from you.”
“Oh, Tom!” laughed Polly, greatly amused at his words. “You talk exactly like Winnie Trevors. He’s the society pet that expects to marry Elizabeth Dalken. But you should see him – and hear him talk!”
“Tom Latimer would never thank you for that left-handed compliment, Polly, if he could but see the slim little dude you compared to him,” said Eleanor, joining the group.
“I believe I do know him, Polly – If he is the silver-haired lap-dog I went to grammar-school with.”
“Yes – he has got whitish hair, Tom!” laughed Eleanor.
Polly smiled but said nothing. Then Tom said, “Will you take all that back, Poll, or must I punish you severely, some day?”
“I never take back a word I once have said – unless I can see where I can benefit myself. You see, Tom, I have changed woefully, since living in New York. I am exactly like other citizens here – I am supremely selfish, these days.”
Tom smiled. “I can offer you a bite of attractive bait. Will you apologise for calling me ‘exactly like Winnie’ if I tell you a profound secret?”
“That depends! What do you call ‘profound,’ and will I be concerned in hearing it?” teased Polly.
Eleanor had never known Polly to behave so coquettishly before, and to her astonishment, she beheld her little model of virtue flirt distractingly with Tom. Or Eleanor thought Polly was flirting, when she sent a dazzling look at him from her wonderful eyes.
“It is the secret about the Valentine Roses. At last I have managed to learn who really sent them to you.”
Eleanor perked up. Here was a delightful situation. Polly had never been able to find out who had sent the roses, and Tom was ready to confess.
“Oh, really!” exclaimed Polly, eagerly inquisitive.
Tom laughed. “Are you concerned? Is it a profound secret?”
“Yes, oh, yes, Tom!” cried Eleanor, excitedly. “Do tell us what you know.”
“But Polly has to show her interest, too. If she says she is sorry for likening me to Winfield, I will tell her who sent the roses.”
“Is he nice, Tom?” asked Polly, anxiously.
“I have heard people say he is, and I think him great!”
Eleanor chuckled. This was a scene after her own heart.
“Is he old – or ugly, Tom?” added Polly.
“No – he is young, and not very bad-looking.”
Polly thought seriously, then said: “Does he live in New York?”
“I won’t answer any more such questions, Polly, it isn’t fair unless you do your part,” laughed Tom.
“Oh, well, then, please excuse me for ever mentioning you in the same breath with Winnie,” giggled Polly. “Now tell me who sent those roses.”
“I will, Polly, but not to-day. I did not promise to tell you, at once – so I will wait until after John’s wedding.”
Polly stamped her foot as Tom hurried away, and Eleanor laughed merrily at the hoax. But there was too much going on all about them, to bother, now, about roses that were almost two years old.
Mr. Maynard arrived from Chicago in time for the quiet little wedding at “The Church around the Corner,” and then everyone went to the Studio for a reception. John and his bride left for a very short honeymoon, and later, all thoughts centered on Polly and Eleanor. It would be their turn to say good-by in a few days.
Tom Latimer outdid himself during the days intervening between John’s wedding and Polly’s sailing. Jim and Ken were back from college, but somehow the two girls who had been such fine young pals out in the Rockies, and on that Coney Island trip, now seemed several years older than these boys. They couldn’t understand it.
Mr. Fabian could have explained the change. It was mostly psychological, due to the advanced mental training his girls had received in their study of a chosen high profession. They truly were far superior, now, to either of the two boys at Yale, although they were not aware of it at the time.
The day for the sailing of the steamer arrived, and a gay party stood on the pier just before the good-bys had to be said. Mrs. Brewster gave Polly many warnings and advices, and Mr. Maynard begged Eleanor not to bankrupt him during her stay in Paris.
Books, flowers, fruit and candy, had been piled up in the arms of Ruth Ashby, Polly and Eleanor, until they could not shake the extended hands of their friends when the time came to really say good-by.
“Never mind your hands, we’ll kiss your faces!” laughed Mr. Maynard, and straightway began kissing the pretty struggling girls.
As everyone in the group was an old friend, each one took toll of the girls’ cheeks, and just as Jim Latimer, the last in the line, caught a swift brush of Ruth’s ear, Tom Latimer strolled up.
“Hello, Tom! Where have you been?” called his father.
“Better get your kiss, Tom, or you’ll be left,” added Jim.
So Tom managed to get his “good-by” from Ruth and from Eleanor, but Polly blushed furiously, and reared her head.
“If another silly man kisses me, I’ll – I’ll – slap him!”
Of course everyone laughed uproariously at this, but the guard suddenly shouted, “All aboard.” And the sailing party rushed up the gang-plank.
Once on deck, however, Polly remembered something she had meant to ask Tom Latimer. She leaned over the rail and called back:
“Oh, Tom! you never told me who sent the roses!”
“You’ll find out about it when you reach your stateroom,” shouted Tom, making a megaphone of his hands. “I met him there, talking to the steward, and you will know as soon as you go down.”
Eleanor giggled. “That’s where Tom was when Mr. Dalken dared anyone to take one of his girls away from him.”
“But who could Tom have met in our stateroom, Nolla? I thought everyone was on the pier with us?”
The steamer had already swung down-stream, and the friends on the pier were mere dots, so the curious girls hurried down to see who had sent Polly the Valentine roses. Ruth accompanied them, as she felt she should have been the third in this girl relationship – like triplets, she said, one day, to her father.