Polly in New York

Polly now glanced at Eleanor and said in a low tone: “Get a good grip on your umbrella. Thank heavens we haven’t any books or papers to carry, as we usually have.”

Then the fellow called Bill, said: “You amble up to the peacherino on the outside, whiles I take to the inside one, Andy.”

“There’s the boss’s car waiting fer nuttin. We kin give them a ride—a joy ride fer us,” harshly laughed Andy.

Bill joined in the suggestive laugh, and both girls unconsciously hastened their steps.

“No hurry, my pretties. There ain’t a cop twixt here an’ the saloon on Fourteenth street. Don’t we’se know this districk? Ha-ha!”

“Ready for a fight, Nolla!” hissed Polly, suddenly wheeling and facing the accosters.

Eleanor also turned, a second later, and both men were taken by surprise. Polly’s eyes blazed and she gave the roughs such a scornful look that it should have withered them as they stood there.

“Now you two out-laws turn-about-face and march downtown as fast as you know how!” commanded she.

Bill hesitated to attack Eleanor as she yelled and screamed for help, but Andy was raging and tried to close in with Polly. The umbrella was flung aside, and in another minute Polly launched at his face with a closed fist. It struck him between the eyes and caused a howl of pain.

Before he could collect himself, the daring girl had struck him another fearful blow under the chin. This sent him back flat upon his back, and while he was trying to crawl up on his knees, the amateur pugilist turned and sent a blow at Bill. But he had stood gaping at the amazing encounter with his pal, and he now dodged his own undoing.

Eleanor saw her opportunity. She had no time to lift her umbrella for a blow, and it had no solid handle like Polly’s, but she fiercely rammed the steel-capped end of the rod into the pit of the rascal’s stomach, so that, instantly, he buckled up. He sank down groaning while he struggled to get his breath.

Andy was up on his feet again by this time, but Bill was out of the fight, so both girls gave full attention to the second villain. He fought now, as slum ruffians will, but he was no match for the hard knuckles, steel muscles and lithe movements, of the Rocky Mountain maid who had grappled with wild animals and had won out.

The groveling Bill now managed to reach out a hand, planning to catch Eleanor by the ankle and trip her. But at that moment a silent-running automobile slid up to the curb and, at the instant of its stopping, the door flew open and a gentleman leaped out. In his hand he pointed a revolver, and Andy immediately threw up both hands.

“W-h-y—Mr. Dalken. Oh, thank goodness you came!” cried Eleanor, trembling nervously.

The chauffeur was standing guard over Bill at the same time, so Mr. Dalken asked frowningly: “What are you girls doing down here at this hour?—all alone, too!”

By this time the truant officer ran over to the group and wanted to know what was wrong. Mr. Dalken turned on him in just anger. “Wrong—why, you were not on the beat! That’s what’s wrong.”

“But I was—I got a beat bigger than any Fift’ avenoo cop what only has to parade in front of a swell’s house.”

“You needn’t try to bull-doze me, my man. Evidently you fail to recognise me, but we will talk this over at the City Hall, in the morning. Now arrest these two foot-pads.” As the officer snapped hand-cuffs on his prisoners, Dalken added, “By the way, why is a saloon open at this hour—to sell soft drinks?”

The scorn in Mr. Dalken’s tone silenced the policeman. “Now, girls, jump into the car and I will take you home,” offered their rescuer. But the officer interfered when they would have stepped inside the car.

“Your names, please, and addresses. And how do I know that you will take these young ladies to their home?” The tone of the man was insulting.

“If it were not for the fact that I want to hurry these children to their family as quickly as possible, I’d take the keenest pleasure in answering you in a manner that you’d understand and respect. Now you go about your tardy business and I will see to mine. Here’s my card. The girls do not appear in this matter at all. I am the man who caused the ruffians’ arrest, and I will answer in Court.”

Mr. Dalken followed the girls into the car and the driver instantly shot away; in a short time the car stopped in front of the Studio. As Polly and Eleanor gratefully took Mr. Dalken’s hand, he advised them. “Better not speak of this affair to anyone—leave it to me to settle. But, hereafter, do not dream of going about so late at night, unattended. One never can tell!”

“But we can’t expect Anne to trot about with us when she is tired out at night,” explained Eleanor.

“Then use my car on the nights you have to go to school. I’ll send down my Sedan, after this, because the butler understands its tricks thoroughly. He seldom has anything to do on those evenings you go to school, and he can oblige us by driving that car should I need Henri for this car.”

The girls thanked him again, and then hurried indoors.

“Where have you been so late, dears?” cried Anne, anxiously, as they came in.

“We told you we would be late,” began Polly.

“But it is past twelve, now; I was about to call up the police-station at Ninth street, and find out if anything had happened.”

The two girls laughed and Eleanor pulled Anne’s ear playfully, as she said: “Now, silly, what could happen to us!”

CHAPTER X—CHRISTMAS AND WHAT IT BROUGHT

Madam Wellington’s school prospered splendidly from the publicity given it in the papers directly after the fire. And later, when it was learned that Mr. Ashby, Mr. Dalken, and two other wealthy men had purchased the corner which had always been disfigured by the old four-story amusement hall, and proposed erecting a twelve-story high-class apartment house on the land, the mention of the fire and the bravery of the Wellington School girls again appeared in the papers.

Letters between Pebbly Pit and New York passed twice a week, and the last news from home was: “How we should love to have you spend Christmas with us, Polly dearest. It will not seem like a real Christmas with both my children away from home.”

The letter made Polly feel home-sick and she wrote to her mother immediately, saying: “I feel that I shall have to come home even if it takes a month out of school and delays me in my art studies, unless you can plan some other way that we might see each other this Christmas.”

Polly had a very clever plan that suddenly came to her, as she read her mother’s words, and her reply was the first step in working out her plan successfully.

The second step was to go downtown and call upon Mr. Latimer at his office. She was welcomed there and asked what good wind blew her downtown.

Polly laughed. “It’s a blizzard from the Rockies—that is why I’m here.” Then she told him about her mother’s home-sick words. “And this is what we must do, Mr. Latimer, or I’ll have to leave school and go back home.”

“Dear me, I will do anything rather than lose you from New York, Polly,” Mr. Latimer laughingly replied.

“You must find some excuse on the mining or jewel business, that needs Daddy’s personal presence here in New York. Make it necessary for him to be here just before, or after Christmas. Then I will write and let them know that you told me about it, and insist upon having mother come East with father, for her Christmas. Why, even John and Paul might join us here without much expense or trouble.”

Mr. Latimer smiled. “There is no harm in trying the plan, even if your father won’t leave his ranch while it is under six feet of snow.”

Polly laughed at that. “Exactly! Dad doesn’t have to stick there in winter-time, any more than I do. Especially with Jeb on hand to take care of everything.”

Then remembering a warning, she said: “But you’ve got to find a real worthy reason for his coming East, because I know my Dad!”

“I’ll have you approve the reason before I send it West—how will that do?”

“I think you will do well. Because I may be able to make a suggestion—knowing my father as I do.”

Mr. Latimer laughed and patted Polly on the head. “Well, now that that is settled, let us talk about Jim and Ken. You know, do you not, that we expect them home in a few days?”

“I didn’t know, but I took for granted that they would soon be home for the Holidays. Although it seems like yesterday that they were home for Thanksgiving Week.”

“Not to Jim’s mother and me. We miss him very much, as he always was such a lively boy at home.”

“I’m afraid we won’t see much of him this time. He never even called us on the ’phone when he came from New Haven to see Ruth Ashby, two weeks ago Sunday,” said Polly, never dreaming that his father was ignorant of the visit.

“He didn’t! Then Ken should have called on you. He did not come to see a girl, too, did he?”

“Oh, Ken never knew Jim was coming—so Ruth told us. Jim telephoned her early Sunday morning and found she would be home, so he ran in Town on the noon train and stayed until the nine o’clock.”

“I’ll see that Jim does not go back on his first loves quite so suddenly,” laughed Mr. Latimer, thinking of the teasing he would give Jim.

“But we are not ‘loves’ at all—Nolla and I are only good pals for the boys,” corrected Polly, anxiously.

“Whatever you call it, Jim ought to be well advised on such matters, as long as legal advice costs him nothing.”

Polly failed to follow Mr. Latimer, and he immediately changed the subject. “Now that you are here and it is lunch-hour, why not come with me. I promised to take you to the Café Savarin or the Lawyer’s Club, some day, and this is the day.”

“Oh, it would be lovely, but I just couldn’t leave Nolla out of the treat, you know!” exclaimed Polly, eagerly.

“If Nolla is at home, we will have her down in twenty minutes. We’ll wait for her, and meanwhile I’ll dictate a letter to your father for you to O.K.”

Eleanor was moping around the house, wondering where Polly could be, when the telephone rang and she was invited to join her friends at luncheon. So in less than half-an-hour the trio were having a merry time in the sumptuous private restaurant on lower Broadway.

The letter that Polly approved, reached Sam Brewster, and he showed it to his wife. “Ah have been thinking, dear, that we-all might surprise Polly by dropping in on her just about Christmas time, eh?”

“Rather than let her come West and lose all that time from classes, I should say ‘yes,’ Sam.”

“We really have nothing to tie us down at the ranch for a few weeks, unless the snow buries us for the winter.”

“Sary would be in her glory could she keep house alone with Jeb for a time. Ever since they returned from their honeymoon in Denver, she has been sighing to run the house,” said Mrs. Brewster, “feeding the fire” carefully.

“Let’s go! By the Great Horned Spoon, I feel like taking a vacation to some other part of the world—so New York will do!”

Then it was quickly decided that they would start on Monday, and this being Friday, there was no time to lose.

Sary and Jeb accepted the amazing news with smiles and exchange of knowing looks. But they were relieved when Mrs. Brewster herself suggested to Sary: “Have all the good times you want, Sary, while we are gone. Invite your friends, and neighbors, if they can get through the drifts, and have apple-parties, corn-poppers, Virginia Reels, and anything on earth you like!”

“Would you-all keer if we-all ast as much as twenty to a time?” asked Sary, fearfully.

“Ask forty, if you like—and if you can find them,” laughed Mrs. Brewster, recklessly.

“Only see to it that they leave the roof, Sary,” ha-hawed Sam Brewster. “And that the sky-larkin’ is all over when we return.”

Sary nodded understandingly. She had instantly planned how to create envy in the souls of her old friends at Yellow Jacket Pass, by asking them all to her parties.

The Brewsters sent John a wire to say that they would spend a few hours in Chicago, and would like him to keep that time open. But when they reached Chicago, John was standing on the platform holding a suit-case in his hand. Tom Latimer and Paul Stewart stood beside him.

John explained: “Paul and Tom are going, too. Some good fairy sent us round-trip tickets, but we don’t know who it was. Not a line came with the tickets. So here we are—ready to help in the surprise.”

John then introduced Paul, and Mrs. Brewster took his hand as she looked into his face. “You are the image of our Anne, Paul; I would have known you anywhere.”

“That he is,” added Sam Brewster, shaking Paul’s hand heartily. So the party of five continued on the journey, smiling as they pictured the glad surprise to be given the family at the Studio. Little did they dream that the Studio family were busy preparing for a gladsome Christmas for them all. For Mr. Latimer had told them about the telegram from Pebbly Pit, and that he had heard from Tom that he and John and Paul were going to join the party coming East. But he did not say that he, incognito, had mailed the tickets.

The Twentieth Century had a long line of Pullmans to take to New York that trip, and it was small wonder that passengers having berths in the last coach, should fail to meet anyone traveling in the first one. So it was with speechless amazement, that the Brewsters met the Maynards at Grand Central Station when both parties were waiting to get taxi-cabs.

“Well, well, Ah believe it’s Mr. Maynard!” exclaimed Sam Brewster, in his deep western thunder.

“Brewster? so it is! Indeed I am glad to see you here. Come to cheer up the little girl, eh?” and Eleanor’s father grasped the ranchman’s big hands.

Mrs. Brewster and her two young male companions (Tom had gone to telephone) were now introduced to Barbara and Mrs. Maynard. The latter had never met the Brewster family, and Barbara, thinking it wiser to assume indifference, smiled coldly.

“We’re stopping at the Park Hotel, Brewster—what about you folks? Might as well go where we do,” suggested Mr. Maynard.

“I wired there for accommodations; Polly mentioned it in several of her letters as being quite near the Studio.”

“Fine! Then we will go right along. Here Taxi! eight of us and baggage.”

“You mean seven, Mr. Maynard?” ventured John, politely.

“No—didn’t you know Pete was here with us? He came on another coach with some chums who were coming East.”

“I haven’t seen much of Pete, this term. I’ve been cramming every moment, so as to finish and be ready to help in the mine, you see,” explained John, hesitatingly.

Mr. Maynard saw the expression and said nothing, but he determined to find out why Pete had not seen much of Paul and John and Tom, that term. Three young men who could be of great advantage to a wild young student should be cultivated, he thought.

When Sam Brewster did anything, he never did it by halves; consequently when he wired the Park Hotel for rooms, the day he left Denver, he engaged a whole suite. No better accommodations than he had, were to be found in the building, and the Maynards had to accept second-best.

When Mr. Maynard found the ranchman had the very finest the hotel afforded, he chuckled delightedly to himself, for he had silently watched the manner in which Barbara received the greetings of the people who were so kind to her that Summer.

Mrs. Maynard was furious with her husband. “My dear! what possessed you to come to this horrid place. Don’t you know that Bob’s position must be catered to? Even the best hotels here are rather too ordinary. She should be stopping at the newest and most exclusive one uptown.”

“When she marries that little numb-skull you’ve tagged to her skirts, she can stop where she likes. But her Dad is running this show. I’m here to visit Nolla, and I stop where I can call and see her, or she can run in to see us, without wasting time traveling on the streets.”

“You always did spoil Nolla—while poor Bob has to take third place in your affections,” complained Mrs. Maynard.

“Bob’s mother makes up for any lack in me. That’s why I have to give double love to Nolla and Pete—Bob has all of yours.”

The usual ending to similar scenes might have resulted, had not Mr. Maynard gone out to hurry over to the Studio. But his wife and Barbara sulkily unpacked their trunks and made very fine toilets before they thought of calling at the Studio.

Mr. Maynard rang at the front door of the Studio, but he had to wait a few moments before the door opened. From within, merry laughter and joyous shouting could be heard. Then in another moment, Eleanor was in her father’s arms and was dragging him into the happy circle.

The Brewsters, and Paul and Pete were already there, so that the newcomer’s appearance added another reason for Polly and Eleanor’s happiness.

“I haven’t enough china to go around for such a family!” Mrs. Stewart said plaintively; as she came into the room with her arms dusted with flour.

“And only half of us here, too!” laughed Mr. Maynard.

“What—more on the way?” exclaimed Anne.

“Nolla’s mother and Bob will be, shortly.”

“Mother—and Bob!” cried Eleanor, eagerly, happy that her mother and sister cared enough for her to come and visit her.

“Now that adds to all my troubles,” Mrs. Stewart declared as she dropped into a nearby chair.

“But why—the more the merrier,” laughed Mrs. Brewster.

“Why—because there are only seven straight chairs in this stable. All the others are great cushiony things that won’t do in a small dining-room such as ours.”

“Motherkins!” said Paul, laughingly picking his mother up and seating her upon his strong knees, “Did her think we-all would permit her to cook a great supper for such a mob?”

“Of course—I like it, dear, but I am staggered at the limitations—china and chairs.”

“Mrs. Stewart, we are not going to eat a crumb in this house during the Holidays, unless it be a theatre supper or afternoon tea! That is all settled beforehand. Run upstairs and put on your evening dress. We propose making a party of it this first night,” called Mr. Maynard, trying to make himself heard above the general din.

“Is it your party, Dad?” asked Eleanor, gayly.

“Yes, and to please Bob it is to be at the Ritz. To-morrow it will be Brewster’s turn, and that’s up to him to say where we go.”

“Oh, Daddy—I know a place!” exclaimed Polly, eagerly. “Eleanor and I have never been, but we’ve heard lots about it and this is the chance. We’ll all go down to Chinatown, to-morrow!”

A wild chorus of laughter greeted this proposal, and Polly looked surprised. To make matters worse, she added explanatorily: “Why, the girls say chop-suey is great! And at Christmas time the Chinks’ stores are beautiful! The lovely things one can buy then are the best that are imported from the Orient.”

“We’ll do Chinatown, thoroughly, Poll, but it may not be to-morrow night,” promised John, who had hitherto been completely engaged with Anne’s whispers and looks.

Thereafter followed delight upon delight, each day filled with new plans and exciting fulfillments. Ken and his parents, the four Latimers, the Ashbys, Mr. Fabian, and even Mr. Dalken, were included in the gay whirl of these pleasure-seekers. Mrs. Maynard and Barbara actually enjoyed the wholesome fun and almost forgot to be affected or snobbish. To associate intimately with Mr. Dalken, whose social standing was well-known in Chicago, as well as in other large cities, was excuse enough to accept all the other friends. But added to that pleasure, the friendship and evident intimacy the Ashbys and Latimers entertained for Polly and Eleanor, made Mrs. Maynard feel there might be hope for Nolla in the future.

Christmas fell on the Thursday after the Westerners had arrived in New York; and considering all the fun and gadding that had been indulged in, on the days preceding the twenty-fifth, that day passed quietly for all. Each family enjoyed its own gathering and gifts, and all assembled at the Ashbys in the evening, to enjoy music and dancing, and everyone declared it had been a fine day!

Friday started anew the excitement of planning and enjoying whatever came in the way of the party. But Saturday night had been set aside for Mr. Dalken’s Christmas party. Elizabeth was invited to bring her friends, and everyone in Polly’s and Eleanor’s friendship ring were included.

Mr. Dalken lived in modest but very large rooms of a bachelor apartment house, downtown, and here he had an enormous tree fixed in the center of the living-room. No one was allowed to see that room until all had assembled, but when the doors were opened, there were “ahs” and “ohs” from everyone.

The tree was so beautifully trimmed that it seemed a pity that it should ever be dismantled. But soon, the attractive white packages tied with red ribbons, filled the guests with curiosity; and once Eleanor had peeped at the name written on one box, there was no peace but her host must distribute the gifts.

Mr. Dalken never spared time or money when he did anything for his friends, and his Christmas Party was to be one all would remember. The gifts were carefully selected for each individual and those for the four girls—Elizabeth, Ruth Ashby, Polly and Eleanor, were exquisite and costly. Elizabeth had craved a ring. She had it. Ruth, Polly, and Eleanor each had a long barpin of platinum daintily jewelled.

With her usual impetuosity, Eleanor suddenly sprang up and hugged Mr. Dalken gratefully for her gift. Polly smiled and shyly shook hands, while Ruth said he must have read her thoughts, for she had asked Dad for a pin and had been refused. Now she had it, anyway, and from her second-best Dad. Elizabeth was pleased, too, but merely murmured “Thanks, Papa.”

“How do you like the jewels in the pins, girls?” asked Mr. Latimer, quizzically, as no one had mentioned the gems.

Suddenly Polly looked up at him. She caught the twinkle in his eyes, and instantly wheeled to look at the other men. Each one was smiling as if there was a fine secret here.

“I just know these are Rainbow Cliff jewels!” exclaimed Polly, joyously.

“No—are they?” demanded Eleanor, holding the pin aloft to let the light flash over and through them.

“Now I am deeply offended! I want the girls to see that I got the very best and finest stones in New York, and someone dares suggest that they may be lava!” grumbled Mr. Dalken, trying to be peevish.

“I can find out by taking mine to Tiffany’s, to-morrow,” said Ruth, wisely.

“No, you won’t—Tiffany says his store is to be closed all day to-morrow,” laughed Mr. Ashby.

“Why—some one in his family dead?” asked Elizabeth.

“No—but it is Sunday, and he is a church member.”

Every one laughed, as it had been forgotten the Sabbath was so near at hand. Then Eleanor had an idea.

“Why wait for Tiffany? Maybe the box will give us a clue.” So she found her box and examined it. Inside the silk-padded lid were the words in gold ink: “Rainbow Cliffs’ Jewel Company.”

“Oh, oh! It is our lava! Polly, now you can carry a little of Pebbly Pit about with you!” cried Eleanor, dancing about.

“Yes, it is a bit of Polly’s own dear heath. These are the very first jewels the company perfected. And as I am one of the corporation, I wheedled the cutter into giving me his first output. So, girls, you not only have pretty pins, but also you have what may be considered a curiosity,” explained Mr. Dalken.

“Are you one of our company?” Polly asked, eagerly.

“Yes, Mr. Ashby and I took stock soon after the fire, because we said this was going to be a big thing, some day.”

“I’m so glad, Mr. Dalken,” said Polly simply, and in a voice that only he could hear. “I like you so much, and I’m happy to know that you and I are members, together, in something.”

“Polly, dear, that is the very best Christmas gift I have had in years,” murmured Mr. Dalken, feelingly.

CHAPTER XI—THE VALENTINES

Then to draw a dozen of these lines—next to connect them and make a design of these dozen simple lines. But the next lesson was still more foolish. They were told to draw a square. Then this large square of twenty inches each side was divided into smaller squares. And in each of these squares the pupils were told to draw whatever they liked, but each square must repeat the first one figure designed.

Thus the scholars found that they had a pattern of the design. This began to look more promising, and Eleanor wished she had paid more attention to the squares so that the design would have been neater.

The next lesson was on grouping certain designs. The talk given by Mr. Fabian that evening was on eye-measurement and judgment in lines.

“Unless one has a good eye for lines in anything, it is a waste of time to study a profession that is based fundamentally on a true judgment of lines—whether of beauty, grace, or usefulness. Unless one has a true sense of ‘line’ one can never know where to build a window, a door, or a fire-place.

“Not only does ‘line’ govern the size of rooms and halls, but the entire building is dependent upon true lines. Also, this basis line governs furniture and decorations in an interior.

“Can you picture a room where the portières are all of different lengths?—because the decorator had no sense of ‘line value?’ And what would one say if the chairs had legs of various lengths? Is not ‘line value’ to be used here, too? It is found necessary, everywhere.”

So the lessons and lectures continued until the girls took up the study of colors. This was very interesting, and soon, both Polly and Eleanor knew that yellow, blue and red were primary colors and they could glibly tell you what that meant, and how important a part the knowledge played, in the progressive art of decorating.

When the demonstration of these lessons began in the painting, the girls realized that they were actually going to be able to carry home samples of their work. From that time on, they showed more zeal in doing everything as correctly and perfectly as possible. And Mr. Fabian, at his next monthly report to Mr. Ashby (which were quite unknown to Polly and Eleanor) said: “They’re deeply interested in the actual art and not merely for the fun of some day going into business.”

“I am glad to hear it. There is so much of this idea of taking up interior decorating because it is comparatively a new field, but so few really ought to be in it. It should be made a matter of diplomas the same as other professions. Then the restriction would soon clear away all the quacks in the art. If these two girls but escape the snares of matrimony until they are finished artists, I shall be rejoiced to welcome them to our fold.”

Mr. Fabian nodded approvingly, and murmured: “I have faith in them. I’m sure that both these girls are sensible and not to be easily influenced by a good looking beau.”

Mr. Ashby smiled. “They’re much safer in New York than if they lived in smaller towns. Girls in this city haven’t time to find beaux or think of husbands.”

“Don’t be so sure, Mr. Ashby,” retorted Mr. Fabian. “If the girls are as pretty as my two are, and clever and rich as well, they’d find it hard to escape.”

“But you are speaking of society girls, while these two students seldom give that empty life a thought—I’m glad to say.”

Which conversation goes to show that more than one adult was watching the experiment these two girls were unconsciously making of their school days, with intense interest and a desire to aid.

Polly and Eleanor were not aware of all that had been done to insure them perfect freedom and liberty to continue their art classes. Had they known the arguments Mr. Latimer had had with Jim and Ken to keep those boys from usurping so much of the time the girls had to devote to study! Then Jim had blustered and boasted of all he would do once he was at college: His father wouldn’t know how many letters he would write, nor the visits to the girls, of an evening!

And one reason Tom Latimer and John seldom wrote to Polly and Eleanor, was because of Anne’s suggestion—to leave the girls to plan their spare time for their very own work, and not be made to feel that they had letters to answer, all the time.

It was Tom who had begged Jim not to waste his own, or the girls’ time, in writing silly letters or in traveling back and forth from college to New York. And Tom, wise big brother that he was, took Jim into his confidence and explained how anxious John and he were to have Polly climb to the top of the ladder in her art. That she had to make good in New York those first two years or go back home and starve her artistic soul on a lonesome ranch.

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

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.

Mrs. Stewart was embraced by Paul, and Pete hugged his sister Eleanor. Tom Latimer stood a pace apart, his features working desperately to control his feelings as he saw John joyously scanning Anne’s face, and Polly limply sitting down in the parlor chair. Then he quickly went over and greeted her.

“Polly, and you boys”—turning to Jim and Kenneth—“we sure are happy to see you-all again. My, what a change New York has made in you. I see quite a wonderful young lady, where once I remember my little ranch pal with pigtails.” Tom tried to laugh merrily.

Kenneth suddenly launched into a silly conversation to cheer Polly. But Polly never could dissimulate, and she was too deeply hurt at her brother’s neglect to pretend to be merry. John, however, now turned to embrace and kiss his sister, and evidently had had no thought of neglecting her.

“Come, children, we must get out or we’ll be carried to the round-house,” suggested Jim Latimer, taking up certain bags.

Once on the platform where Mr. Maynard welcomed them, Tom said: “When do Ken and you go on to Denver?”

“On the next train, leaving here at two. That gives us an hour and a half with you.”

“Anyone want dinner, or did you eat on the train?” now asked Paul Stewart.

“All dined, but now waiting for someone to suggest a party for Ken and I, as we go on in a little while,” said Jim.

“Here!” offered Mr. Maynard. “Pile into taxis and we’ll be at the house in a jiffy. No place like home when there’s no other place to go to.”

So, laughing, the entire party bundled itself into cabs, John managing to get Anne and her luggage to himself. Immediately, he signalled the driver to start off.

Mr. Maynard, Paul and Mrs. Stewart got in another cab and Jim, Ken, and Eleanor in another. That left Polly and Tom Latimer, with the remaining bags, to get in the last taxi. It was all done in such noisy confusion, that no one dreamed how one clever manager had so manipulated matters as to have Polly alone in the last cab.

“Well, Polly, I hear you are soaring in your ambition. Mr. Fabian wrote me how interested he was in Nolla and you.”

“Oh, did the dear man write you? I didn’t know he and you corresponded.”

“I took a great fancy to the idealist, and having always loved art for itself, I told him I would consider it a great pleasure if he would exchange letters with me when he had the opportunity. He has done better for me than I had any right to expect. He writes the most interesting letters—just as clever as his talks on art.”

Having found a willing listener in Tom, Polly expanded on her private opinion of such a wonderful teacher as Mr. Fabian was, and before the taxi drew up in front of the Maynard’s brown-stone mansion, Tom had the comforting assurance that Polly had quite forgotten her brother John’s unintentional neglect.

Jim and Ken enjoyed their hasty visit and then took their departure to catch their train going west. When Mrs. Maynard and Barbara dispensed tea, the three young men, John, Tom and Paul, had to enter into service for the hostess; but they would greatly have preferred to enjoy their time as each inclined—John alone with Anne in the conservatory, Tom and Polly talking art, and Paul making merry with Eleanor.

Barbara, who a year ago would have resented oblivion for herself, now smiled contentedly and gazed upon a huge solitaire.

“Bob, shall we announce it?” whispered her mother.

“No, they do not know Percival, and, moreover, not one of these people appreciate his social standing.”

So the young people now gathered about Mrs. Maynard’s tea-table were deprived (so Bob thought) of the greatest event of the past social season—her engagement to one of the most aristocratic and wealthiest eligibles on the market, Percival Weston.

Barbara twirled her solitaire smilingly, nor cared that her Percival was bald and diminutive, past the prime in life, and not over-brilliant. Had he not been the catch at Newport the previous Summer? And had he not attached himself to her as soon as she appeared in the Adirondack Camp presided over by the famous society leader of New York?