ACT I
SCENE.—A plain, old-fashioned room. The essential piece of furniture is an old-fashioned sewing table, what is known as a Martha Washington table, and is quite generally imitated to-day. They were small and square, with leaves that turned down, and two drawers.
(Great-Aunt Polly is seated by the table, looking at a collection of valentines, post-cards, etc., such as the young girl of to-day receives. Pauline is seated a little way from her.)
Aunt P. Very pretty, Pauline, I’m sure, and a great many of them for one little schoolgirl. I don’t really like the post-cards, though, dearie. It doesn’t seem just right to send a valentine unenclosed.
Pauline. Oh, it’s quite the thing, now, Aunt Polly. Everybody does it.
Aunt P. It’s a style I do not care for, my dear.
Pauline. But it saves money.
Aunt P. The difference between one cent and two is not very wide, is it?
Pauline. No, but when one wants to send a lot it means a good deal, unless you are flush—and I never am.
Aunt P. Send a lot? What do you mean, my dear?
Pauline. Why, every fellow wants to send one to every pretty girl he knows, of course.
Aunt P. A Christmas card, perhaps, but a valentine! That should be for one only, my dear.
Pauline. How odd! Why, I sent twenty-five, myself, to the nice boys I knew.
Aunt P. Twenty-five! Oh, my dear! You didn’t!
Pauline. Sure I did! Why not? Is that the way they sent them in your day, Auntie? Seems to me they were rather narrow.
Aunt P. No, indeed, my dear, but a valentine meant something then. A young man sent but one, and that went to the lady of his choice. The girls did not send any. We would have thought it immodest. But girls do many things to-day that would not have been tolerated in my day. A girl, then, was supposed to be a lady.
Pauline. Instead of a madcap tomboy? Well, I plead guilty, and throw myself on the mercy of the court. I just love to be a tomboy, and I’m going to be one a long time yet. No “one valentine” sentiment for me, or one boy, either, for years to come.
Aunt P. Well, perhaps you are right, yet many of my girlhood friends married at sixteen, and nearly all of them were married by the time they were twenty, that is, of course, those who married at all.
Pauline. And why didn’t you, Auntie dear? Didn’t you ever like any one well enough?
Aunt P. Yes, dearie, I did. I don’t suppose any woman lives to be thirty without liking some one well enough to marry him, if circumstances came about right. But there! They don’t always do it. Would you like to see my old valentines, Pauline?
Pauline. Oh, I would, so much, Auntie dear!
Aunt P. (opening top drawer of stand). Well, dearie, here they are. No post-cards among them. Most of them came from the same one, as you see. This is the last one he ever sent me.
Pauline (opening it.) Did he die, Auntie?
Aunt P. No, he didn’t die, dear. He’s alive still. He got angry at me, that’s all. Talk of girls getting in a huff over nothing! Boys aren’t far behind, let me tell you.
Pauline. And did he marry?
Aunt P. No, he is single still.
Pauline. Then he cared, you see. How romantic! Why didn’t you try to make up with him?
Aunt P. It isn’t the lady’s place, my dear, to run after a man.
Pauline. Well, I like that! Well, if ever I’m fond of a man, I’ll run after him and hold him, if necessary, till I know what he was mad at. Or did you know, Auntie? And was it something that couldn’t be made up?
Aunt P. Why, I suppose I did know, dearie—but it seemed such a slight thing to anger him. My cousin came that Valentine’s Day. We had been brought up almost like brother and sister before I came to this town. It was fine sleighing, and he took me over to Wrentham for the night. His mother was there, just for the day and night, and the young girl whom he was to marry. When I came home, next day, I asked my mother for my mail. She replied that there wasn’t any. “But there must have been a valentine,” I said. “Amos always sends me one.” “I know,” she answered, “but this year he didn’t. He called, though, last evening, and seemed much put out that you were not here. He went off as stiff as a poker.” Of course, I thought he must be angry because I went sleighing with Timothy, though I thought it a bit far-fetched, as we were only old friends, and so were Timothy and myself. “But,” I thought, “I’ll explain when he gets over his huff, and it will be all right.”
Pauline. And didn’t you?
Aunt P. No, dear, I hadn’t the opportunity. Next day his mother came over to tell us that he had gone away. She seemed to think I was to blame, somehow, and she never was nice to me again, and it was more than a year before Amos came back, and then he was just coldly polite when we met. That was the end of my little romance, dear, for though there were others who found me fair, somehow I couldn’t seem to care for any of them. You see, dearie, Amos had won my love, though he didn’t know it, and so—— (Pauses.)
Pauline. And he has it yet! Oh, Auntie, how romantic! And does he live in town still?
Aunt P. Yes, but I meet him seldom, and we merely say a “How-de-do” in passing. Excuse me, dearie. I think I will go up-stairs a few minutes, while you look at my old keepsakes. I cannot imagine how I came to let you wheedle this old story from me. Please do not refer to it again.
Pauline. No indeed, Auntie. Thank you for telling me. (Aunt P. passes out, and Pauline proceeds to investigate drawer, soliloquizing as she does so.) Such quaint little valentines! I like them, though! And nearly all in the same handwriting—that of the faithless Amos, evidently. Yes, this one is signed A. H. A. H. A is Amos, of course. A. H. Could it be Mr. Hill, I wonder? “A. Hill,” he has it on his sign. He’s old, or rather old—sixty, I shouldn’t wonder, and he’s a bachelor. I’ll bet he’s the one! Mean old thing, to bring tears to the eyes of my little great-auntie after all these years! (Puts valentines hack in drawer, and shuts it rather vigorously, letting one drop, unnoticed, to the floor.) Men and boys are queer creatures, anyhow. I’m glad I’m a girl! And I’m glad I live now, instead of forty years ago. Why, I got more valentines, I do believe, to-day, than Aunt Polly has in all her life. Why, I dropped one! (Picks it up.) Amos was a little fellow when he sent this, I guess. (Opens it.) No, this is from the Timothy who seems to have been the villain in the little pastoral comedy. What a cute little verse!
(Reads.)
“Dear Polly, though you’re far away,
Think of me on Valentine’s Day.
I wish I could see you, so sweet and prim.
That’s all. Good-bye, from Cousin Tim.”
(Tries to open drawer.) Why, what makes this drawer stick so? (Pulls till drawer opens with a jerk.) Why, of all things! How came that box in there? It wasn’t there a minute ago! It looks like a little drawer. I do believe it’s a secret drawer, that has somehow fallen down! And here—why, I do believe here’s another valentine from Amos that was never opened. It is sealed and addressed, but I don’t believe she ever got it. And that, I’ll bet, made the trouble! I wonder—yes, I will, I’ll mail it and see what comes of it. I’ll call Auntie, first, and show her the drawer. No, on second thoughts, I won’t hurry about that. Here’s to mail Amos’ last valentine, and then I’ll run down to the office later, when the afternoon mail comes in, and get it. Wouldn’t it be romantic if things came out story-book style, and I was the Cupid who had a finger in the pie? (Goes out.)
CURTAIN