Polly in New York
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But Valentine’s Day was coming, and Jim felt that on that day he would be privileged to not only write to the girls, but to send each one a fine valentine, describing his sentiments.
Polly and Eleanor could not forget Valentine’s Day was at hand, for every shop-window they passed invited sentimental people to step in and see the love cards.
“I’d like to send a perfect dear to Mr. Dalken, Nolla,” said Polly, reading the verse on a card.
“To Mr. Dalken! Why, Poll, he is an old married man!”
“But what of that! Can’t I send him a card that states how much I like him?”
“Oh, ye-es – I suppose so; but valentines are really meant for lovers, you see.”
“It’s nothing of the kind, Nolla. Dear old St. Valentine never meant all his notes for lovers; but for everyone he loved! and that is very different, I think.”
“Well, send yours to anyone you like, but I am going to buy one for Jim,” said Eleanor, searching over the piles of cards on the tray, but not finding what she sought.
“Oh, Nolla,” laughed Polly, teasingly. “Are you selecting Jim for your first love?”
“First love! I should say double no! I am hunting for a comic one for him – just because he is so sentimental and sits with moony eyes when he is near any pretty girl. I thought I would die with laughter that night he sat and gazed with soulful eyes at Ruth.”
Finally the girls found several very funny cards which had sarcastic lines under the pictures. These they were going to mail to Jim and Ken. Then Eleanor had an idea.
“I just guess I’ll mail one each to John, Tom, Pete and Paul, too. If I dared, I’d get Pete to re-mail one to Bob so she wouldn’t know who sent it. Being postmarked ‘Chicago’ she’d break her head trying to think who sent it to her.”
“Oh, that will be fun, Nolla. Have them remailed so the boys won’t know we sent them. Let’s do that with all of ours.”
The need of secrecy, and the trouble of selecting appropriate lines for each of their friends, took time. But Eleanor wired her father to keep the secret and do the mailing for them, and he wired back his consent. So the valentines meant for the Chicago friends went to Mr. Maynard, and duly reached each one as had been intended.
And those for Jim and Ken were handed to a porter on the train that ran to New Haven, with a liberal tip if he would drop them in a letter-box when he jumped from the train. His wide grin showed he was ready to abet the pranks such generous pretty young misses planned to tease their beaux.
Elizabeth Dalken had taken a violent fancy to Jim Latimer when she met him at the different Christmas parties, and Valentine’s Day being an opportunity for love-lorn misses and youths, she bought a very expensive Valentine, with sentiment as soft as down, and suggestive of heart-aches and sighs and what-not.
But Elizabeth had no independence, whatever, and once she had the Valentine boxed and ready to post, she wished she knew someone who would address it. She feared to have her own cramped writing seen on it.
In Mrs. Wellington’s school was a clever girl who could imitate hand-writing to perfection, and Elizabeth presented her with a box of bon-bons a few days before Valentine’s Day. Then the following day she asked a favor. Would Myrtle address a box for her?
Myrtle comprehended, but the candies had been delicious so she laughed: “Got a valentine to send?”
“Yes, but it is a joke. I want the receiver to believe Eleanor Maynard sent it. Can you imitate her writing?”
“Easy as pie. Get me her exercise from this noon’s class.”
And in short order the box was addressed in Eleanor’s hand-writing. Elizabeth mailed it, and the day following the 14th, Jim mailed, what he considered, a lover’s work of art – such ardent lines and such sentiment seldom entered his thoughts, but the mushy words of the valentine excused his letter.
“W-e-ll – Jim’s gone clean mad!” gasped Eleanor.
“Is the thick letter from him?” asked Polly.
“Yes, but read it, Poll, and tell me what ails him.”
Polly read, but not without giggles and many a lifted eyebrow when she came to the extra fine phrases of love-making.
“Nolla, he sure is daffy. Can you see through it?”
“Not at all. I expected a comic from him – not this.”
“Nolla, do you think anyone we know would send him a soft valentine and pretend it came from you?”
“Maybe – for a joke! Now who would do it?”
They asked Anne, and showed her the letter. She laughed with them, but when they were not present, she sat down and wrote to Jim – a nice sisterly letter cuttingly blunt that told him that she had her hands full with school and girls, and house, so that any extra care would drive her insane. Letters such as the one that came to Nolla, were the worst danger she had to ward off from the girls.
By the last mail on the thirteenth and during the day of the fourteenth other valentines came for Polly and Eleanor; some of real merit as tokens of friendship; some of beauty; and many with a little line of love. But Polly received no vague or sentimental one during Valentine’s day.
That evening, however, the bell rang, and Mrs. Stewart asked who was there. The girls were already upstairs.
“Messenger with a box.”
“Mother – wait till I get there!” called Anne, anxiously.
In another moment, Anne, in a negligée, ran downstairs and opened the street-door which opened into a vestibule.
A large long box was handed in and Anne signed the book. It was addressed to “Miss Polly Brewster, Studio, 1003 East Thirtieth Street, New York.”
“Polly, here’s a great box of flowers from someone,” Anne called, standing at the foot of the stairs.
“For me?”
“Your name is on the tag,” said Anne.
Instantly, Polly and Eleanor scrambled downstairs and Polly tremblingly tried to untie the string about the box.
“Dear me – it won’t even break!” said she, trying to tear the cord by pulling at it.
“Here – take the knife!” cried Eleanor, having dashed to the dining-room to catch up a silver knife, and returning with it.
The string was cut, the lid taken off, and several wrappers of oiled paper removed. Then, there, upon a bed of lace-paper rested a dozen of magnificent American Beauties, with stems more than a yard long. And to the cluster, about the middle of the stems, was attached a fine golden cord holding a papier maché heart. The heart had a golden arrow half-buried in its plump center.
“What wonderful roses!” breathed Polly.
“Isn’t the heart cute!” giggled Eleanor.
“No card, or sign, to say where they came from?” asked Anne, picking the heart up carefully.
“Oh, there’s another heart – see! On the point of the arrow at the back,” cried Eleanor. And there was another heart fastened to the first one by means of the sharp arrow.
The girls sought carefully for some clue of the sender, but the sweet perfume wafted from the roses was all that rewarded their search.
“Whoever it was, he is a dear!” said Polly, fondly touching the waxen stems.
“And we’ll try to keep them as long as possible so, whoever it was, will see that we appreciate the flowers,” said Anne, going for water.
“At last I have found a use for that tall vase I bought that first week of auctions,” laughed Eleanor, taking the glass from under the window-seat.
Scarcely were the roses arranged to satisfy the admiring group, when the bell rang again. Eleanor being nearest the door, ran out to the small vestibule and peeped through the window in the street-door.
“Well, of all things! Another messenger. Maybe he has a valentine for me.”
The door was opened, Eleanor said “yes” to his query if Mrs. Stewart lived there, and having signed the book, hurried in with a tier of boxes. There were four in all.
“Miss Anne Stewart the first on top,” read Polly.
The second was for Mrs. Stewart, and the third for Polly, the last being Eleanor’s. Each box contained a beautiful spray of cut flowers but no card. Not even a suggestion of the sender.
“Well, it beats all. Why couldn’t our admirers have sent our flowers in the morning,” laughed Anne.
Again the bell pealed. “It surely can’t be more flowers!” laughed Polly, running to the door. But it was. A card on the outside read: “Say it with Flowers,” to Miss Anne Stewart.
By this time everyone was laughing and trying to guess who could have sent the blossoms. And had the bell sounded again, no one would have been surprised. But it didn’t, and after guessing of all impossible persons who might be the senders of the flower-valentines, Anne ventured: “Someone may have telegraphed to New York this morning, you know, to send us these flowers, at once. I’ve heard said, the florists were so rushed to-day with valentine orders that they couldn’t secure enough flowers from the wholesale shops.”
“That’s about it!” declared Eleanor. “John sent you this last box, and maybe Daddy sent us each the smaller boxes. But who could have sent Polly a hundred dollars’ worth of American Beauties?”
Finally they went to bed with the great question still unsolved; and Polly often wondered, thereafter, if Mr. Dalken could have sent her those roses? Had she guessed the truth, would she have been content to go on so serenely with her studies of interior decorating?
CHAPTER XII – MR. FABIAN PLOTS FOR FACTS
The roses kept for more than two weeks, filling the Studio rooms with fragrance, but keeping their secret as to who had sent them to Polly. She had gone to everyone she knew and tried to find out who had given them to her. Then she beguiled Mr. Ashby into finding out if Mr. Dalken was the guilty one. And when he was found innocent, she bribed Mr. Dalken to find out if the Latimers or the Evans sent them – but she could not see why anyone should spend so much money on her, and try to hide the fact.
When Mr. Fabian was satisfied that it was not one of their old friends who had sent the roses, he thought of a way to find out. The box had had the name on its cover, of one of Fifth avenue’s most fashionable florists, so he went there and tried to learn what he wanted to know, by asking the proprietor.
But the man smiled and shook his head. “We are never allowed to divulge state secrets, Mr. Fabian.”
“Not even when that secret concerns a protegée of mine? I do not wish to use the knowledge, but merely to relieve my mind.”
“If I were to tell you, Mr. Fabian, I should have to also tell the six other individuals who begged me to tell them confidentially who ordered the roses.”
“Six others! Have others been here to ask this same question?” asked Mr. Fabian, amazed.
The florist laughed. “Yes, that pretty miss seems to be very popular. Who is she, anyway?”
“A little girl that attends my art class, and I am bound to keep her mind free from nonsense until her education is finished.”
“Can you keep a secret – on your oath?” asked the florist.
“Yes, yes!” eagerly agreed Mr. Fabian, thinking he was now going to hear who sent the roses.
“Well, then, this much I may tell you – just to ease your fears: the individual who sent those roses is as anxious as you can be, to keep the girl’s heart and mind free from nonsense and to allow her to complete her art education without thoughts of beaux.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“My goodness, don’t you appreciate that much! You only wanted to know something to ease your mind, and now I have told you.”
“How do you know what the gentleman thinks or wants?”
“I was told so by the one who ordered the roses. But I did not tell you it was a gentleman.”
This was still more disconcerting to Mr. Fabian, but he never told a soul that he had visited the florist. He did wonder, however, if the man had given the others the same confidence he had imparted confidentially to him.
Polly, the cause of all this secret concern of her friends, had forgotten all about the valentine, and was devoting her entire time and attention to the absorbing lessons at art school.
Easter Week came early, and the term beginning immediately after the Easter Holidays, would start a course on mural decorations, and the study of tapestries. So interesting had their night-classes become, that Polly and Eleanor neglected their studies at day-school. Anne noticed their daily marks and worried over it. At last she consulted with Mr. Fabian.
“You must realize, Mr. Fabian, that the girls are still young. Even if they were prepared to enter the profession they are proposing to follow they would be too young in years to make a success of it. People are not apt to turn over contracts for art or decorating, to girls under twenty. Therefore I advise you to make them drop their night school until after they have caught up in their day classes.”
Mr. Fabian was secretly pleased at the news that his two pet scholars preferred his teachings to the dry high-school lessons. But he dared not express his satisfaction to Anne.
“All you say is true, but there is no need for my girls to give up their art class. The night school closes for a two weeks’ holiday at Easter, and then, as warm weather comes on apace, I find my pupils begin to lose zeal in their constant attendance at class. You will see that Polly and Eleanor will turn more to their day studies, then. But I would not advise you to cut off their pursuit in art work, now. It will only create deeper zest for it, and turn their thoughts completely from day-studies.”
Anne replied that this was logical, and so the girls never knew that they had been standing upon the danger-line of having to suspend their favorite studies.
Mr. Fabian was roused to a more temperate art “diet” for the two girls, thereafter. And Polly and Eleanor found, as Spring advanced, that lessons in night school were simpler and not quite so absorbing to their time, as those of the recent weeks had been.
In the mural decoration study that began with the new Spring term, the pupils found that, beginning with the order of antiquity, Egyptian first, and then Greek, Roman, Medieval, Moresque and Persian styles – much of their work done in the other classes now proved useful. In fact, the historical studies of these races of people and their periods of time, proved valuable in review, for the further perfection of mural art.
So when they were given a design to do in “wave ornament” it was at once recognised as Egyptian art. Or should a wall decoration be required where geometrical forms were the principle, the pupils remembered the religion of the Arabs and Moors which restricted them to the use of natural forms which would not conflict with their worship.
Thus Polly and Eleanor began to understand how important their previous lessons had been, and how necessary it was for every earnest student of art to be present at each class, that no connecting link in instruction might be dropped and lost.
As the weeks went by, and the end of the term drew near, the night classes thinned out perceptibly, many of the less enthusiastic pupils preferring outdoor sports to close application to art pursuits. But Polly and Eleanor found their pleasure in hearing all Mr. Fabian had to say to them on various subjects.
Perhaps the girls might not have been so keen for school during the warm evenings, had not Mr. Fabian’s knowledge and fascinating descriptions of anything pertaining to his profession, been so freely given them at all times. He continued to discover exhibits, lectures, and other educational pastimes, to which he conducted his favorite pupils, so that there was no dearth of material to aid and demonstrate his teachings.
As June came in, Polly found New York not nearly as cool and pleasant an abode as Pebbly Pit with its altitude upon the crests of the Rockies. And she longed for a breath of the mountain air that would renew jaded senses. Both Eleanor and Polly began to show the strain of the close application to study that they had had since October, so Anne was thankful that the schools would soon close for the Summer.
Then the last class in Cooper Union ended, and Mr. Fabian escorted his girls to their home. Already, they were planning for the coming year of work, but their instructor smiled and interrupted.
“I have refused an offer to continue my classes in the school, so I will not be there next year.”
“What!” gasped Polly.
“Not teach us!” cried Eleanor.
“Not teach at Cooper – no. I feel that I am not strong enough to keep up such arduous labors; and so many there do not seem to appreciate what I am sacrificing for them. I find there are some people who think that, because a thing is free, it is not as valuable as if they had to pay for it. You can see, for yourselves, how many scholars dropped out of the classes when other diversions offered themselves. They join an art class and attend it when nothing else can be had. They take my thought and time, and when they weary of the routine, they fail to appear. It is very disheartening. But it is so every year, and I am tired of trying to keep up the interest of such lazy leeches.”
Polly and Eleanor heard their dear professor’s words in sorry silence. What would night school be without him?
“But I have planned a far different school beginning with next October. I have chosen the faithful few who really mean business, and to these I shall offer my services for a small return. I feel sure that this will mean greater benefit to individuals in a small class, as I can devote much more time to each student and give better advice wherever it is needed. I have thought of seven scholars for my little school.”
“Oh, Mr. Fabian – I do hope Polly and I are among them!” exclaimed Eleanor, anxiously.
Mr. Fabian smiled. “Perhaps it was because of Polly and you that I thought of this idea. You two girls really should have personal instruction, instead of having to waste hours in a general class waiting for delinquents to catch up with you.
“That has always been the weak spot in any large class; there are those who forge ahead eagerly, and the lazy ones who miss a class every few nights, causing the whole body to delay and wait while they work to catch up on what they have missed.
“When the few ambitious workers can be grouped together and not hampered by the leeches, one can readily see how much better it is for all concerned. This is what I propose doing.”
“Oh, it will be splendid! and I am glad, for one, to be able to look forward to such teachings. To know that we can ask all the questions freely, and not have to wait to have the easiest lesson explained to the thick-headed, will be a great relief,” said Polly, gratefully.
At the door of the Studio, Mr. Fabian said good-by. “I am planning to sail for Europe very soon, my dears, and I am looking forward to a good time with my little family. We intend visiting all the famous places of interest to an artist, and when I return in the Fall, I will be able to tell you about the great cathedrals, the wonderful collections of antiques, and other sights.”
“As for Polly and me – we won’t be able to give you any such tales, as we are going to spend our vacation at Pebbly Pit, again. But we will bring back plenty of health and renewed zeal,” laughed Eleanor.
“Ah! That is what I need of you now, children. See that you fill out the hollows in your cheeks, and gather ample strength and health for another strenuous year in New York. I plan to put both of you on the firing-line next school-year.”
“We’ll not fail you, Mr. Fabian,” promised Polly, taking his hand a second time and patting it fondly.
“Then I’ll not fail you, dear students!” responded Mr. Fabian, stooping and kissing each girl affectionately on the forehead, then taking his leave.
A few days after this the Studio was swathed in dust-covers, the windows locked and shuttered, the burglar alarm attached, and at last the front door was closed by a representative from the insurance company. The four tenants were on their way to Grand Central where Jim Latimer and Kenneth Evans were to meet them. They then were going to take the Twentieth Century Limited to Chicago.
Jim and Ken had been engaged by Carew, to join his camp of surveyors in the mountains for this second season’s work; and, as Polly and her friends were to spend the summer vacation at Pebbly Pit, it was quite natural that all six should journey westward, together.
Mr. Dalken and the Ashbys came to see the friends off, and as the parent Latimers and Evans were with their boys to the last, there was a large merry party to accompany the travelers to the Pullman.
“Don’t be surprised to see me bring the Ashbys to Pebbly Pit in my touring car, some fine day, soon,” announced Mr. Dalken.
“Oh, that would be lovely!” cried Polly, eagerly.
“And leave Ruth with us for the Summer?” added Eleanor.
“Yes, yes, Daddy – I’d love to spend my vacation with Polly and Eleanor at the ranch!” exclaimed Ruth Ashby.
“Where would you put us all – even if we did come?” asked Mrs. Ashby, who had heard of the limitations of the ranch-house.
“Oh, you forget! John writes that we will be surprised to find the marvelous work that has gone on at the Cliffs. Not only is the great road down through the Devil’s Causeway completed for heavy traffic, but rows and rows of buildings back of the Imps are ready for occupancy, the moment the machinery is set up for work on the lava. If the miners have not yet taken possession of the barracks we could invite loads of people to visit the ranch.”
Polly spoke eagerly, and her eyes shone as she beheld her friends enjoying the Brewster hospitality.
Everyone laughed at her anxiety to have them visit her, and Mr. Dalken promised: “I’ll do my best to bring my friends, Polly.”
A quizzical look in his eyes suddenly caused Polly to remember the valentine she had sent him. She smiled back at him, but as suddenly another thought flashed into her mind.
“Oh, Mr. Dalken, I’ve wanted to ask you for the longest time! Now that it is ancient history, you won’t mind confessing, will you?”
Mr. Dalken shook his head as a concession to her eager look. And Polly continued: “Did you send me those American Beauties’ valentine?”
A roar greeted this question, as everyone of the grown-ups had asked the same question of Mr. Dalken months before. And Mr. Dalken not only repudiated any knowledge of the valentine but told how he had visited the florist and had not been able to ascertain who the Cupid really was.
“Polly, I will confess, as they say that open confession is good for the soul. I was guilty of sending four boxes of flowers to the Studio on Valentine Day, to four charming friends, but I showed no partiality, I think, in the bouquets. I would like to know, myself, who the Cupid was who sent such gorgeous roses as you received.”
“I wonder! I’m sure it wasn’t Jim,” here Polly looked searchingly at the young student, and he shook his head laughingly.
“I couldn’t have, had I wanted to. My pocket money went for that love-sonnet that was so harshly condemned,” said he.
“And I’m sure Ken never dreamed of doing it. Then there is Mr. Latimer and the doctor – they are both innocent, I know, as they never think of anything other than the old patented jewel cutter.”
As Polly explained thus in earnest tones, everyone laughed at the two men so calmly criticised for their absorption in patents.
“So I am inclined to believe it was my own Daddy. He always did send me the cutest valentines each year, and I received no card from him this year – so that is who it was!” declared Polly.
“And the only kind of a Cupid to have, these days, Polly,” approved Mr. Dalken.
But the happy circle standing on the platform of the train-shed were now notified that the passengers must get on as the train would leave in a few moments.
Good-bys were said, hands shaken, kisses wafted from the girls to the group remaining in New York, and then the travelers were gone.
Scarcely had the train slowed up in the Chicago Terminal before John and Tom Latimer were on board, pushing a way through the Pullmans, in search of familiar faces.
“There they are – there comes John!” cried Polly, excitedly, jumping up and pointing to the other end of the coach.
“Oh – !” sighed Anne, flushing joyously as her glance rested upon her fiancé.
But John had no eyes for anyone but Anne. Polly was left standing with hands out-stretched, her whole soul quivering with anticipation of her beloved brother’s greeting, and now he forgot she was alive! Then Paul Stewart and Pete Maynard ran in.