ACT II
SCENE.—Same room as before. Evening of same day.
(Mrs. Winston is seated, with sewing. Bobby runs in.)
Mrs. W. What do you think I got in the mail to-day, Bobby?
Bobby. The paper, probably.
Mrs. W. Yes, but something more.
Bobby. A letter.
Mrs. W. Something better and more precious still.
Bobby. What was it?
Mrs. W. A valentine—such a pretty one! Why, I haven’t had a valentine for years!
Bobby. Did you like it?
Mrs. W. I certainly did, very much. If I only knew who sent it, I should—kiss him, I think.
Bobby. You mightn’t want to.
Mrs. W. I’m sure I should want to, for, you see, I knew the writing on the outside.
Bobby. You did?
Mrs. W. Yes indeed. Thank you so much, dear. It was very nice to receive a valentine once more.
Bobby. Don’t ladies get valentines?
Mrs. W. Not usually after they are my age, dear.
Bobby. But Miss Colwell does, and I heard you say once that you had the same birthday.
Mrs. W. So we have, dear, but what makes you think she gets valentines?
Bobby. I know she does. Uncle Bertram sent her one this morning, and he said it was the fortieth.
Mrs. W. Uncle Bertram? Did he tell you that, Bobby?
Bobby. N-no, not exactly; but he said it, Mamma. He did, really.
Mrs. W. To whom, then, if not to you? How did you come to hear it?
Bobby. He said it to himself, when he was directing it this morning.
Mrs. W. Did he know you were there?
Bobby. N-no. I wasn’t there, exactly.
Mrs. W. Then where were you?
Bobby. I was—in there. (Points.)
Mrs. W. Bobby! You weren’t listening?
Bobby. Well, I couldn’t help hearing, could I?
Mrs. W. Here comes Louise. Don’t mention what you have told me, Bobby. Not to any one. Remember.
Bobby (as Louise enters). Yes’m, I won’t. Hi, Louie! How many valentines did you get?
Louise. Eight. Want to see ’em?
Bobby. Sure I do. Come on over and show ’em to Mamma.
(Louise passes to side of her mother’s chair; Bobby stands at other side, and they look at the valentines.)
Louise (showing them). Bert sent this one, and Uncle Bertram sent this one, and Grandpa sent this one, and Harold sent this one, and Leon sent this one, and Edwin sent this one, and Reginald sent this one.
(She says this slowly, showing them, and Mrs. W. and Bobby make comments on how pretty they are, etc.)
Bobby. Gee! That’s a beaut of Reginald’s. Bet you’re glad you sent him one.
Louise. No, I’m not. He bought one for every girl in our class—every single girl! He likes to show off how much pocket money he has.
Mrs. W. It’s a very pretty valentine, Louise.
Louise (showing last one). I like this better. Freddie made it all himself, and it’s the only one he sent.
Bobby. ’Tis pretty, but it isn’t nearly so swell as Reggie’s. Besides, I thought Freddie wasn’t going to send any.
Louise. He said he wasn’t going to buy any, and he didn’t.
Bobby. Gee! And you sent him——
Louise. I didn’t either, Bobby Winston. I got those envelopes mixed, and sent him the nice one.
Bobby. And you sent the other to Reg? Kinder tough, when he’d treated the whole grade to valentines.
Mrs. W. I hope my little daughter didn’t send a comic valentine to any one.
Louise. I did, Mamma, but I shan’t again. I should have been so ashamed if Freddie had got it, when he made me such a pretty one.
Mrs. W. But how about Reginald?
Louise. Oh, Reggie didn’t care a bit. He never got a comic one before, and he thought it was funny. He never guessed one of us girls sent it, and you see, it was a miser, and Reggie isn’t a bit, you know, so it didn’t touch him at all, but——
Enter Evelyn and Helen, evidently rather “huffy.”
Helen. Well, you got some, didn’t you, kiddo?
Bobby. I should say she did! Eight of ’em! How many’d you get, Helen?
Helen. Oh, five or six. What a foolish day it is! Worse than April first!
Louise. I think it’s lovely. Don’t you, Evvie?
Evelyn (shortly). No.
Bobby. Looks as if you two had a grouch. What’s up?
Evelyn. Nothing.
Helen (scornfully). Nothing!
Evelyn. Oh, dry up, do! Let your face rest a while.
Mrs. W. Evelyn! What sort of talk is that?
Evelyn. Well, I’m sick of her nagging! And everything’s gone wrong to-day.
Helen. I don’t see as anything went wrong with you.
Evelyn. I suppose you wouldn’t call it so, but why any one should want that simp of a Pet hanging round her, I don’t know.
Helen. Then why did you have him?
Evelyn. How could I help it? He doesn’t know enough to see when he’s turned down. I did everything but slap his pretty face for him, but nothing would penetrate that rhinoceros hide of self-esteem. Bah! He makes me sick!
Helen. You looked like it. I saw how earnestly you were talking to him.
Evelyn. I certainly was.
Bobby. Gee! Evvie’s stole Helen’s beau, and Helen’s mad!
Helen. No such thing.
Mrs. W. That will do, Bobby. I have never seen any signs of Evelyn’s fancying Philip. He isn’t her style.
Evelyn. No, he isn’t. I detest sissy boys, and always did. Helen can have him and welcome.
Helen. Then why did you send him a valentine? No wonder you wouldn’t show me the address!
Evelyn. It wasn’t to him.
Helen (hotly). You’re——
Mrs. W. (interrupting sharply). Helen! I hope neither of my girls is going to forget that she is a lady.
Helen. Well, she did send him one.
Evelyn. I did not!
Helen. I heard him thank you for it in two lines of poetry.
Evelyn. And if you’d played eavesdropper a little longer, you’d have heard me absolutely deny it. I told him I only sent one, and that not to him, and advised him to talk to the one to whom he sent the volume of poetry and the white roses.
Helen. And he said you were the prettiest. I hate you both, so there!
(Throws herself into a chair, and begins to cry.)
Evelyn. Truly, Helen——
Helen. Don’t talk to me. I saw the address on the envelope, and so did Freda and Myrtle, and we all recognized your writing. No other girl in school makes a P like yours.
Evelyn. It was a very good imitation, I’ll admit. The work, no doubt, of some one who thought it a very good joke to play on me. Just wait till I see Mr. Jack Hamilton, that’s all. It was a neat little stroke of business to be out of town to-day. I could shake him with a will.
Mrs. W. But why should a valentine make such a disturbance? It’s just boy and girl fun at your age.
Bobby. Helen don’t think so. She’s awful spoony on Mr. Philip Etheridge Tuttle.
Mrs. W. That will do, Bobby. Don’t be vulgar.
Louise. Well, he always walks to the corner with her, and to-night he didn’t. He came with Evvie.
Bobby. Came after her, you mean, trotting behind like a little poodle-dog whose missis goes too fast for him, and she and Helen have been fighting ever since.
Helen. Well, she knew he liked me, and she’s always pretended not to like him, and he’s always thought she was pretty, and so, when she sent him the valentine——
Evelyn. When she sent him nothing! If he tags me to-morrow I’ll tie a blue ribbon on his neck, and hitch it to a little chain, and lead him round like a nice little toy dog. You see if I don’t!
Helen. Just to show every girl in the school that you’ve captured him! Well, I’ll see that they know how you did it.
Evelyn. I’m about tired of being told I—twist the truth.
Helen. I’d say it stronger, if Mother’d let me. You may think it, instead. I saw you address that envelope this morning, and you refused to let me see the name—you know you did!
Evelyn. Well, so did you. What was the matter with the one you sent him, I wonder?
Helen. I wish I’d never sent it. All I’ve got from him to-day at school is a nod and a stare. He’s mad about something, and you’re to blame.
Mrs. W. How about the roses and the book?
Helen. Well—he sent them before he got Evvie’s valentine.
Evelyn. I never sent him any!
Mrs. W. That will do, girls, both of you. Helen, if things have gone to this point I am glad I have found it out in time. I knew he was a rather sentimental boy, but I thought him harmless as an associate, and he was poor Fanny’s boy, so I have encouraged his coming here—having no mother. But this——
Evelyn. Oh, Helen isn’t quite as foolish as she seems, Mamma. She’s just jealous because he thinks me pretty. As if I cared what he thought!
Helen (sneeringly). Yes, as if you did!
Mrs. W. Here’s Bert coming. If you don’t want to hear of this foolish quarrel for the next six weeks, you’d better stop it. Bobby and Louise, not a word about it. Remember now.
Enter Bert.
Bert. Good-evening, every one. What’s the matter, Helen? (Throws himself into seat.)
Helen. Nothing. What’s the matter with you? You look glum as an oyster.
Mrs. W. Didn’t things go well at the office to-day, Bert?
Bert. Oh, yes, about the same as usual.
Louise (going up to him, and smoothing his hair). Was somebody mean to you, Bertie?
Bert (taking her on his knee). Just a bit, maybe, little sister. See here! (He takes a dime from his pocket.) If I gave you this what would you do with it?
Louise. I’d buy a little dolly at the ten-cent store.
Bobby. A dolly! Gee whiz! I’ll bet you’ve got twenty now.
Louise. But we girls, seven of us, are going to have a sewing society, and we’re going to buy some little dolls, and make a whole outfit for them, and——
Bobby. Pretty outfit it’ll be, I guess. You can’t sew.
Louise. I can, too, a little, and besides, Eloise is going to show us how.
Bobby. Oh, it’s her get up, is it? Then Bert’ll give you the ten-cent piece, sure.
(Bert does so, and she hugs and kisses him.)
Louise. You’re just the dearest big brother! But what makes you look so sober? Does your head ache?
Bert. A little, I guess. Perhaps, if you smooth it, it will make it better. (She proceeds to do so.)
Bobby. Got any more of those little shiny fellers that you want to give away, Bert?
Bert (teasingly). Why, let me see—— Why, what’s come over Uncle Bertram? Never heard him come in like a college boy before. (Enter Uncle Bertram. He goes straight to Bert, and shakes his hand heartily.) Glad to see you, Uncle, truly; but why pick me out for this particular grip?
Uncle B. Because you’ve done me the greatest possible favor. I shall owe my happiness the rest of my life to you, Bert.
Bert. To me? Say, Uncle, is it a joke, or have you gone nutty, or what? I haven’t seen you since morning.
Uncle B. No, I know it, but you’ve done a great thing for me, just the same. I’m—I’m going to be married.
All (together). Why, Bertram! Oh, Uncle Bertram! Who to? Why, Uncle!
Bert. Glad to hear it, I’m sure, but I don’t see what I had to do with it. I didn’t propose to the lady for you, I’m sure.
Uncle B. That’s just what you did, boy, though you didn’t know it. And she wore the white rose, all right.
Bert. Oh, she did? Well, I don’t know how you came to know of it, but if Eloise wants to marry a man twice her age because he has a little money, she’s welcome, for all me. I—I congratulate you, Uncle Bertram.
Uncle B. Good grit, boy, though it isn’t true, one bit of it.
Bobby. What isn’t? Aren’t you going to be married?
Uncle B. I certainly am, and so is Eloise, I fancy; but not together. I’m to marry Miss Ellen Colwell, my boy.
Mrs. W. Ellen? After all these years?
Bert. Not Eloise? But the rose?
Evelyn. And how did Bert propose for you, when he didn’t know anything about it?
Helen. Do keep still, everybody, and let Uncle Bertram tell it. It sounds awfully mixed up to me.
Bert. Yes, explain, do, Uncle. You’ve got me guessing for fair.
Uncle B. Well, you see, to really explain, I’d have to go back twenty years.
Helen. Oh, do, Uncle. It sounds so romantic.
Uncle B. Romantic! Idiotic! That’s what it was! Well, you see, when I was a youngster only three years old, Dr. Colwell came to town to practice, and bought the home where Miss Ellen lives now. We lived on the same street then, and Mother took me with her when she went to call, and I fell in love with her on the spot.
Bobby. With your mother, or the doctor?
Uncle B. With the doctor’s baby, little Ellen. She was a bit of a thing, with a white dress and a blue sash, and blue shoes, and she had big blue eyes that just matched, and little soft, yellow curls, and she called me “Boy.” It was the first word she had ever tried to say, her mother told me.
Louise. Miss Ellen’s hair is brown.
Uncle B. So it is, Louie, but it used to be yellow. Well, from that day on we were playmates, and I sent her a valentine that year. In fact, I have every year. I sent my fortieth this morning.
Bert. But I don’t see——
Uncle B. Hold on, Namesake. Wait a bit, and you will. Twenty years ago I sent one in which, in the best verses I knew how to make, I asked her a question—the question; and I asked her, if the answer was yes, to wear a white rose in her hair, and to sit in the bay window as I went home that night.
Bert. Why——
Uncle B. Yes, I know, my boy. We’re much alike, and history repeats itself. If it hadn’t—well, to go on, she didn’t do it, although I had had some white roses delivered there that afternoon. It seems now that she didn’t get the valentine at all. It went astray somehow. She thought I had forgotten, and didn’t care, and I thought the answer was “no,” and it made a difference in our friendship. Though we have been friends, the old intimacy was gone—and—well, we’ve lost twenty years.
Mrs. W. Oh, brother!
Uncle B. We’re going to make them up, Eva, don’t you forget it. Well, to-day I sent my fortieth valentine, and the same thing happened. It went astray. At least she hasn’t got it yet. (Bobby gives a start, and claps his hand to his pocket, but no one seems to notice. Uncle B. goes on.) She did get one, though, in rhyme, which, strange to say, asked her the selfsame thing. Don’t blush, my boy! And as she always gets a box of white roses on this particular day, when I came home to-night there she sat, in the bay window, with a white rose in her hair! I couldn’t believe my eyes, but I went in, and it’s all right. We’re to be married in six weeks, and I’ve you to thank, my boy, and when you and Eloise are married, you’ll get a check for one thousand dollars for a wedding present.
Bert. But I don’t see how she came to get my letter, and I should have thought she would have known it wasn’t hers.
Uncle B. Why, you called her Ellie—my old pet name for her, as well as yours for Eloise, it seems, and you signed it Bert, which every one always called me till I had a namesake nephew.
Bert. But I directed mine all right, and—no, I didn’t mail it, I do believe. I went off in a rush with Frank, and left it on the desk.
Mrs. W. And Bobby found it there, and I told him to mail it.
Bert. And did you mail it, Bobby?
Bobby. Why——
Evelyn. He didn’t! He forgot it. I saw him start just now, and clap his hand to his pocket. I bet it’s there now.
Bobby. No, sir.
Uncle B. Can’t be, because Ellen got it.
Bert (rising, and grasping Bobby, who is trying to sneak away). Come here, my beloved little brother. Let’s see what you have in your pocket.
(He seats himself, Bobby between his knees, and proceeds to go through his pockets, in spite of his endeavors to get away.)
Bobby. You let me go.
Bert. Directly, my dear brother, directly. Ah, here we are! (He takes letter from Bobby’s pocket.) That’s my letter, sure. Now, young man, why didn’t you mail it?
Bobby. I meant to, truly. But I forgot.
Evelyn. Let Uncle Bertram open it, Bert. I’ll bet a box of candy his valentine is inside. There have been queer doings with valentines to-day, and I believe Bobby’s at the bottom of the whole thing. Hold him tight while I investigate, or rather while we all do. Open that, Uncle Bert.
Bert (passing it). Yes, do, Uncle Bert. My letter isn’t inside, that’s sure, since Miss Ellen got it. No, no, Sir Robert, stay right here. Your elder brother is very fond of your company just now.
Bobby. Let go! You’re twisting my arm!
Bert. I won’t hurt as long as you don’t try to get away, but here you’ve got to stay just now. How about it, Uncle?
Uncle B. (who has opened letter and looked inside). It’s mine, all right, boy. (To Bobby.) Now, young man, how about it? Who changed them around, and when?
Bobby. How should I know? I found this on the desk and asked Mamma if I should mail it, and she said yes, and then I forgot to, that’s all.
Bert. But how came Uncle Bertram’s letter in this envelope?
Bobby. How should I know? Stop that! Mamma, he’s hurting me.
Mrs. W. Yes? Well, I should advise him to keep on doing so till he gets to the bottom of the mystery.
Helen. Yes, make him tell. I’ll bet he did it.
Evelyn. Might as well own up, Bobby. You’ll have to in the end.
Louise. There wasn’t any letter on the desk when I wrote mine. Oh, Bobby, did you change mine? If you did, I’m glad, Bobby, truly I am.
Bobby. I didn’t though, truly, Lou. You did it yourself. I knew it, though, but I thought I’d keep still. I wanted to find out if Reggie Westcott could get mad. He’s such a girlie boy!
Louise. Well, he didn’t. But I’m glad Freddie didn’t get it. I’m glad they got mixed.
Uncle B. So am I, girlie. ’Twas a good mix up for me, but I’m sure other hands tampered with mine.
Bert. And mine. Now, young man, how about it?
Bobby. About what?
Bert (taking him across knee). About this.
(Gives him a spank.)
Bobby. Ow! You hurt.
Bert. Good. I’m going to make each one a little harder than the last. Will you tell me how and when you changed those letters? No answer? Very well.
(Spanks again.)
Bobby. Mamma, make him stop.
Mrs. W. Not until you tell the truth about it, Bobby. A joke is a joke, but a lie is a lie, and I’m certain you do know. Answer truly, now. Don’t you?
Bert (spanking again). Answer your mother, young man.
Bobby. Gee! How can I answer when you’re hurting me?
Bert (standing him between knees again). Now I’m not hurting you. Answer Mother.
Bobby. Answer what? Oh, don’t take me that way again. I’ll answer. Yes, Mamma, I do know. I only did it for fun. Bert left his when he went off in a hurry, and I was going to look at it——
Bert. Well, that’s cool.
Bobby. I just wanted to see if it was as pretty as the one I had for Mamma, and Uncle Bert came in quick, and I didn’t want him to catch me looking at it, so I dodged behind the portière. And he talked out loud to himself, and said it was the fortieth one he’d sent her, and I just thought thirty-nine was enough to get from one man, and I wished I could get a chance to change ’em, just for fun, so when Uncle Bert was called to the ’phone——
Uncle B. So that’s when you did it! I thought I hadn’t sealed that envelope!
Bobby. So I slipped yours out, and Bert’s in, and sealed it, and dodged back. Then I fixed the other back there. They weren’t valentines, though, either of ’em—just poetry, with a fancy border, but both of ’em begun “Dearest Ellie,” and ended “Yours forever, Bert,” so I don’t see why one wasn’t as good as the other. Bert’s was the best, though, really, ’cause any one could understand it, but yours was just rhymes and long words, without any sense that I could see.
Bert. You little scamp! Don’t you know it’s dishonorable to read other folks’ letters?
Bobby. They weren’t letters. They were valentines. How was I to know that men were so silly as to write letters that way? When I want to get married I shall just walk up to the one I want and tell her so.
Uncle B. Right you are, Bobby. If I’d done so, I’d have been a married man all these years, instead of a lonely old bach.
Bert. I believe he’s right myself. I’m off to try my luck. If she says “No,” the whole family will know I’m jilted, thanks to my small brother. Wish me good luck, mother mine.
Mrs. W. Indeed I do, my boy. Never fear. If I have read Eloise’s eyes aright lately, we’ll congratulate you in the morning.
(Bert goes out, all the rest calling “Good luck” after him.)
Evelyn (cornering Bobby). And now we’ll probe a little deeper. If you don’t answer my questions, I shall tickle you without mercy. You were behind there when Helen and I came in?
(Bobby hesitates. Evelyn tickles him.)
Bobby. Stop, Evvie, do stop. Yes, I was there.
Evelyn. And you changed them when Katy fell, and we ran to the kitchen?
Bobby. Yes. I knew how you hated Pet, and I thought it would be funny to make you send him a valentine. So, of course, I had to send Helen’s to Jack.
Helen. Of all the mean kids!
Evelyn. You see, Helen, I wasn’t as mean or as silly as you thought, or as Phil thought, either. You may explain to him if you choose.
Helen. Well, I shan’t. Any one as fickle as that isn’t worth it.
Mrs. W. I’m glad you see it, little daughter. I really think that, as so much good has resulted from Bobby’s playing Cupid, we will have to forgive him this time, but he must never do so again.
Bobby. I won’t, Mamma, truly I won’t.
Uncle B. I don’t suppose you ought to be paid for a naughty trick, but that pony you’ve wanted so long is yours, my boy, next Saturday.
Mrs. W. No, not for a month, Bertram. Bobby must be taught a lesson.
Bobby. All right, Mamma. I deserve it. But thank you, Uncle Bert. You’re a brick!
Uncle B. And now, little girlie, what do you want? A pony, too, or a big dolly?
Louise. I want to be the little flower girl.
Uncle B. So you shall, bless your heart! And Helen and Evelyn shall be bridesmaids.
Louise. And maybe Eloise’ll let me be hers. I’ll be two flower girls.
Evelyn. Two weddings! And one twenty years delayed! Well, I guess there’s something doing in this family, and all because of Bobby and the changed valentines!
CURTAIN
A Romance of St. Valentine’s Day
In Three Acts