A VALENTINE PARTY
On Saturday afternoon, when Geraldine was leaving Colonel Wainright’s
home at about one-thirty, she saw Danny O’Neil working at the summer
house, where he was replacing some of the lattice work which had broken
under the heavy weight of snow. Suddenly she remembered something Doris
had said when they had been planning the Valentine dinner: “I wish Danny
O’Neil could be invited, but he probably wouldn’t come. He thinks that
some of us consider him merely a servant.”
The city girl could not understand _why_ Doris wanted the boy, and she
realized that it was _her own_ attitude that was keeping him away. Then
she remembered what Mrs. Gray had told her about his great loneliness for
the mother who had so recently died. Geraldine also knew what it was to
be motherless. Then, once again, she felt the sweet influence of real
sympathy, and, turning back, she called: “Danny O’Neil, we girls are
giving a surprise Valentine party at Merry Lee’s home tonight at six, and
Doris particularly wants you to come with Alfred.”
Then, before the amazed lad could reply, the girl turned and hurried down
the walk to where her brother waited in a cutter to drive her into town.
On the way she told Alfred what she had said to Danny, and she asked him
to persuade him to accept since Doris so wanted him.
“Sure thing, I will!” the boy replied heartily. “He’s a mighty nice chap.
Lots of talent, too, I should say. I was up in his room last night for a
while. He was carving book ends. I thought it mighty clever work.”
Geraldine, upon reaching the Lee home, found the other girls there before
her. The big, cheerful kitchen swarmed with them. They had agreed to wear
white dresses with red sashes, and red ribbon butterfly bows in their
hair, but their aprons were of all colors.
Merry was giving orders. “Here, Doris, you crack these walnuts, will you?
Bertha is going to make one of her famous nut cakes.” Then she
interrupted herself to say, “Oh, Gerry, hello! You’ve arrived just in
time to—to—” She looked around to see what the newcomer could do.
“Send her over here to help me pare potatoes,” Peg sang out. But Merry
saw, by the almost startled expression in the city girl’s face, that she
would be more apt to cut her fingers than the humble vegetable, and so
she replied: “No, Peg, that’s _your_ work. Gerry shall help me set the
table.” Then she apologized: “I’m sorry to do the pleasantest thing
myself, but no one else knows where the dishes and things are.”
“Oh, it’s _all_ pleasant,” Bertha commented, “when we’re all together.”
“What’s our Rosebud doing?” Gerry sauntered across the kitchen to the
stove where their prettiest member stood stirring something in a pot. The
“our” proved how completely the city girl felt that she was one of them.
“Making Valentine candy,” that maiden replied. “This is a sort of a white
fudge. It’s ever so creamy when it’s whipped. Just delicious with chopped
nuts in it. We’re going to make heart shapes, then dip them in red
frosting.”
For an hour they all worked busily at their appointed tasks; then Merry
and Gerry called the others into the dining-room to see the table.
“Oh-oo, how pretty!”
“Girls, will you look at the red ribbons running from that heart-shaped
box in the middle to each place! What’s the idea, Merry?”
“You’ll know later,” their president laughingly informed them. “That’s a
surprise for everybody which Jack and I planned last night.”
Then Geraldine exclaimed: “Why, Merry, you have made a mistake, haven’t
you? There are sixteen places instead of fifteen.”
“Nary a mistake,” Doris replied. “We have invited that pretty Myra Comely
and she has accepted.” Then before the astonished Geraldine could say,
“What? Invited a washwoman’s daughter,” Doris was hurrying on to explain
how it had happened. “Myra brought our laundry home this morning, and we
had quite a long visit. Merry was over at my house, and we both liked her
ever so much, and when she said that she had never been to a party, why
we just invited her to ours. I hope _you_ don’t mind.” There was a shade
of anxiety in the voice of Doris as she glanced at the taller girl, whose
expression was hard to read.
There was indeed a struggle going on in Geraldine’s heart, but good sense
won out. She slipped an arm affectionately about her friend as she said:
“Anyone who is good enough for _you_ to associate with is good enough for
me!” The other girls had drifted back to the kitchen to resume their
tasks, and these two were alone. “Doris, dear,” Gerry said, “I told your
friend, Danny O’Neil, I hoped he would come, and I made Alfred promise to
bring him.”
How the pretty face of Doris brightened. “That was mighty nice of you!”
she exclaimed. “Now I _know_ he will come. I telephoned him early this
morning, but he seemed to think you wouldn’t care to associate with him;
that is, not socially.”
Then an imperative voice called from the kitchen: “Say, you two ornaments
in there, come on out and help with this chicken.”
At six o’clock all was in readiness, and the seven girls, divested of
aprons, waited the ringing of the door bell with cheeks as rosy as their
ribbons. They had the house quite to themselves, as Mrs. Angel had
obligingly invited Merry’s parents to dinner and Katie had been only too
glad to spend the afternoon and evening with her friends below the
tracks.
“Here comes somebody. Who do you suppose will arrive first?” Merry had
just said when the front door burst open and Jack ushered in Myra Comely.
Merry had asked her brother to bring her, but, almost before the door had
closed, the bell was jingling, and all of the others arrived at once.
In the whirl of excitement that followed, with everybody welcoming
everybody else, no one noticed that Danny had drawn Doris to one side and
was giving her a package. “It’s a valentine that I made for you.
Book-ends that I carved,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t open it here.”
Geraldine glanced in their direction just as Doris lifted sweet, brown
eyes and smiled her appreciation at the boy. But before she could puzzle
about the meaning of it, Jack had taken her hand and was leading her into
the living-room, which was festooned with strings of red paper hearts.
Jokingly he began: “Fair Queen o’ Hearts, I’m the Jack o’ Hearts, won’t
you please tell me where you’ve hidden the tarts?”
What a throng of them there was as they swarmed into the brightly lighted
living-room.
“Don’t sit down, anybody,” Merry warned. “The party-part is going to
start right away. But first you have to draw for partners.” Then she
explained that she would pass a basket to the boys that would contain
halves of valentines, and that at the same time Gerry would pass one with
the other halves to the girls. “You are each to take one, and the two who
have the parts of one valentine are to be partners. The girls are to
stand still and the boys to do the hunting.”
For ten merry minutes boys darted about matching halves of valentines.
The result was rather disappointing to several of them, for Rose was
_not_ for Bob, and Jack drew Myra Comely, while Gerry, of all the queer
tricks of Fate, was Danny O’Neil’s partner; but they took it in good
part, and when Merry put an appropriate song record on the victrola they
all marched out to the dining-room. The girls felt quite repaid for their
efforts when they heard the sincere exclamation of approval which the
boys uttered. Then Merry, as hostess-in-chief, explained that each couple
was to select seats and that they should do this thoughtfully, as the
ribbons had at the other ends prophecies as to their future. There were
tiny bows on the ribbons for girls.
Amid much laughter from the fair ones and “wise cracks” from the boys,
places were chosen, and then when they were all seated, one by one the
ribbons were pulled and out of the box-heart on the middle of the table a
small red paper heart was drawn, and on it, in jolly jingle, was a
prophesy for the future.
As each was drawn, it was read aloud and was followed by much laughter
and teasing, especially when Bob read:
“A dark brunette shall be your wife,
And she will lead you _such_ a life
Of woe and worry and of strife.”
“Oh, I say, Rose,” Bob grinned across the table at the girl who sat
opposite him, “are _you_ going to let that dark brunette get me?”
“Read yours, Rosie,” Merry called gaily, and so Rose read:
“A long, lank spinster you will be;
A cat your only company;
Your favorite pastime drinking tea.”
“Oh, _that’s_ a horrid one,” Their prettiest pushed it from her and
pretended to frown. “I’m going to choose another place. I really wanted
to sit where you are, Peg. Read yours, so I’ll know what I _might_ have
had.” Gleefully Peg complied:
“You’ll marry a gay young millionaire,
You’ll travel together just everywhere,
And in all your life have never a care.”
“Hurray for me!” Peg sang out, but Bob put in: “Well, I’m glad Rose
didn’t choose _that_ ribbon. A grocer doesn’t often get to be a
millionaire.”
And so around the table they read their futures, then the dinner was
served, and so excellent was every dish that had been prepared by the
fair hands that Jack was led to exclaim: “Lucky will be the swains who
win these cooks for their valentines through life.” Then, to the actual
embarrassment of one of them, he asked: “Gerry, which of these good
things did _you_ cook?”
But, before the city girl, who knew _nothing_ whatever about cooking,
could acknowledge the fact, Merry said gaily: “Gerry and I did the
decking of the table this time. Some other time we’ll show you what _we_
can do as cooks.”
Then, to her own amazement, Geraldine heard herself saying: “I’m going to
give a party soon all by myself, and everyone who is here now is
invited.” Her glance even included Myra Comely and Danny O’Neil. Then she
concluded with, “I’ll let you know the date later.”
Her brother was delighted to think that his sister had entered into the
social life of the village with so much evident enjoyment, and that night
when they reached home he took occasion to tell her how pleased he had
been with the impromptu invitation. They were standing alone in the
living-room in front of the fireplace where they had stood on that first
day when the “milkmaids and butter-churners” had come to call. Alfred
smiled as he thought of that other day which seemed so long ago, but
wisely he did not remind his sister of her rudeness and snobbishness on
that other occasion. Brightly she was saying, “Oh, Alfred, I’m going to
write Dad tomorrow and tell him what a wonderful time I’m having and how
glad I am that he wanted us to spend the winter in the town where he was
born.” Indeed _some_ influence, not clearly understood by Alfred, was
working miraculous changes in his sister.