My Lady Valentine

STROLL as slowly as he would, stop as often as he dared, Caleb Whitman reached the village streets without being overtaken by Nancy. Aunt Roxana had decided to keep her at home, he concluded rebelliously, and he remembered with concern how soon he was due in New York.

As he passed the post office, he remembered his promise to Sister Abby to ask for the package of Chinese lanterns. Upon entering the building, he found that the distribution of a late mail was in progress, so that he was obliged to await the completion of that work before he could hope for attention. With interest that bordered on excitement, he watched the Captain’s box, and drew a breath of relief when a letter on the granite gray paper Radding affected was thrust into the pigeon hole.

A moment later the postmaster appeared at the delivery window and Whitman remembered to ask for his own mail as well as for the lanterns. The single letter the postmaster produced was enclosed in a granite gray envelope like the one that awaited Nancy.

The note made the reader laugh in spite of himself. “That letter is like Rad,” he said to himself. “I’d give a good deal to know if he followed my instructions about writing to Nancy.”

“Here are the lanterns you were asking for,” the postmaster reminded him, and pushed a clumsy bundle out the little window.

“I’ll take them to the minister’s and be rid of them,” Whitman concluded; and, leaving the post office, he went slowly down the one business street, peering into the grocer’s, the milliner’s, the store of small wares, in search of a shopper in a poke bonnet. So far she was still nowhere in sight.

It was not until after he had left the bundle at the minister’s that he remembered that Nancy had been bidden to go to the library. Where was it? He looked in vain down the long shady street, sloping to the wharfs. He searched his memory. “Where’s the library?” he finally asked a solitary passer-by.

The woman pointed to the church. “There,” she said, and plodded on her way. “The church?” Whitman called after her. “The tower,” she said.

The church did indeed boast a tower, and upon approach Whitman saw that a sign on the door announced that the library was open Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. He determined to wait here for Nancy. From the windows in the church’s square tower he could sweep half the countryside. He entered eagerly, and following the directions of a painted arrow, ran up a winding stair. At the top of the first flight he paused at the door of a small room stacked with books. An attendant rose as he entered.

“I’m a stranger in Deep Harbor—” he began.

“Boarding with the Captain,” she supplied glibly.

“Yes,” Whitman admitted, wondering if anything above the earth or under the waters of the earth was hidden from the inhabitants of a small village.

“Look around and make yourself at home,” the attendant looked up from her crocheting to say.

It occurred to the visitor that this would not take long to do, as the tower room was only some ten feet square.

“Any book you want particular?” the attendant asked.

“No, I just came to make a general survey.”

“Like to go upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“Yes, the library goes on up the tower; next floor is Religion and Non-Fiction; top floor Juvenile.”

“I’d like to look over the religious books,” said Whitman.

This pious desire sprang from a sudden recollection of the book Aunt Roxana had put on Nancy’s list.

“Shall I go with you?” the attendant asked, as the visitor started up the second flight.

“No, indeed, I just want to look about a bit. I fancy there’s a fine view up higher?”

“I suppose there is,” the girl conceded indifferently. “You can see out as far as the cemetery, and all over the town.”

As these were the points of interest to Whitman, he quickly ascended another flight of stairs and stationed himself in the window. As the girl had promised, his view commanded the country side. He looked down on the beautiful little village, with its white spires and gray roofs peeping through the trees. He identified the Captain’s cottage on its lonely bluff. He found the chimney of the mansion where Nancy lived. Dear old town, steeped in memories! He had grown to love it. There was a charm in the sagging wharfs, in the sleepy street bordered with little stores with diamond paned shop windows.

Abruptly his revery ended. A little figure in a poke bonnet, whose presence lent enchantment to every corner of the town, had just come out of the post office. She was hastening down the street, a basket on her arm, walking rapidly in the direction of the tower. A few minutes later Whitman heard her step on the stair. Evidently she knew the library sufficiently well to come directly to the shelves where the religious books were stacked, for she did not pause on the floor below.

“Oh,” she said, breathlessly, appearing in the doorway and discovering the young man, “I thought there was no one here.”

The man in the window seat arose. “I’ll go, Nancy, if you want to be alone.”

“No,” she said, after a momentary pause, “I don’t mind; but go on reading, please. I want to look over a letter.”

She took a hat pin from her bonnet and slit open a gray envelope as she spoke. Caleb Whitman did not raise his eyes from his book.

“Oh!” cried Nancy, after a long moment, as if she were smothering, “oh!” and again, “oh!”

Whitman sprang from his seat and hurried to her side. The face she lifted to his was bathed in tears. She let them fall quite openly as she pressed the letter to her breast.

“What’s the matter, dearest?” Whitman cried, unconscious of using the endearing term. “Tell me Nancy, has something hurt you?”

His hands clenched. If Radding had played false, he would not be forgiven in a hurry.

“Matter!” she sobbed. “I’m just smothering with joy, that’s all.”

She let him seize her hand, without protest, her pink fingers curling around his, her overflowing eyes on his eager face.

“If you are happy, Nancy,” he pleaded, “why do you cry?”

He stooped over her trembling little form, and taking out a generous sized handkerchief, he wiped her eyes as if she had been a child.

“I don’t know,” she sobbed on a long, uneven breath. “Don’t you ever cry when you are happy?” An uncertain smile broke through her tears. “April is the happiest month of all, and she cries all the time.”

He laughed his delight in her fancy. “Is it the Great Happiness, Nancy?”

“It’s the key to it,” she said. “Everything is going to begin now, for me and for those I love.”

“I’m so glad, so glad,” he glowed, his warm hand enclosing hers. “Will it mean anything for me, Nancy, or am I quite on the outside?”

Two eyes like stars were raised to his. “The gate of the garden will open,” she said.

“When it does, Nancy, may I be the first to enter?”

“I want you to be,” she murmured....

“Get what you wanted, Miss Rose?” The voice was that of the attendant at the bottom of the stairs. Nancy dried her eyes.

“I forget what I came for,” she whispered to Whitman in consternation.

“‘Bunyan’s Holy War,’” he prompted, and he found the volume on the shelf and gave it into Nancy’s keeping before the head of the attendant had more than appeared at the top step of the stairs.

“Yes,” said Nancy, handing over the heavy volume for registration, “I’ve found it.”

“Going to the box social?” the girl asked, stamping Nancy’s card.

“Yes.” Nancy stole a glance at the summer visitor, fumbling among the book shelves.

“That’s good,” said the attendant. “I hope for your sake the minister doesn’t draw your box again. It’s awful dull for you to eat with him every year.”

“He’ll always draw my box,” said Nancy in a clear, sweet voice.

“How’s that?”

“Because Aunt ties it up herself, and tells him the color of the ribbon. It’s the only way she’ll let me go. She says she couldn’t consider leaving it to chance.”

“I see,” said the girl.

“Good-bye,” said Nancy, with a glance so tender, a face so suffused with joy that it was like an April sun.

“Going straight home?” the attendant called after her.

“No,” said Nancy; and her voice rang clear. “I’ve another errand to do first. I have to get some seal brown ribbon at the store.”