With the passing of this gay Holiday Season, the two girls began to feel
that it would be a relief to sit down once more and spend a quiet
evening at school. Two weeks of constant going and dissipation had
become tiresome.
The Westerners had gone home again; John, Tom, Paul and Pete back to
Chicago, and the two boys, Ken and Jim, back at Yale; and then Mrs.
Wellington's school reopened. Lessons went on as if there never had been
a vacation, and on Wednesday evening of that same week, the art school
resumed classes.
This term was to be devoted to Applied Design and its uses in
architecture and decorations of interiors. After having had such
interesting work as Egyptian ornament, art, and symbols, it seemed
rather dry to start out the New Year with drawing straight lines an inch
long.
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?