ACT III
SCENE.—Same as first scene. Evening.
(Pauline seated, with some bit of embroidery, or other fancy work. Aunt P. is seated, also, as curtain rises, but during the conversation moves about a good deal, rather nervously.)
Pauline. What’s the matter, Aunt Polly? What makes you so restless? Don’t you feel well?
Aunt P. Yes, I think so. I—I’m nervous, I think.
Pauline. I didn’t know you were ever nervous, Auntie.
Aunt P. Why, I’m not, as a rule, Pauline. I don’t know what is the matter, I’m sure.
Pauline. Hadn’t you better go to bed, Auntie, and sleep it off?
Aunt P. No, I couldn’t sleep, I’m sure.
Pauline. You haven’t had bad news, have you?
Aunt P. Why, no, dear, not exactly.
Pauline. Not exactly? You’ve had some news then that disturbs you?
Aunt P. Yes, my dear, it is disturbing news, really. It’s almost as if some one had risen from the dead; and I don’t understand it, and I don’t know what to do or say.
Pauline. Could I help you any, Auntie dear?
Aunt P. No, I think not, dearie. I must think it out alone.
Pauline. Do you mind if I run over to Grace’s a few minutes?
Aunt P. Oh, don’t, dear, don’t. Stay with me. Some one might come in.
Pauline. Are you expecting any one?
Aunt P. N-no, not exactly. That is—no, of course not.
Pauline. Why, Auntie dear, if you were a young girl, I should say you were expecting a visit from your young man.
Aunt P. But as I’m not, but an old woman of fifty-eight, you know it can’t be any nonsense of that sort. Remember, my dear Pauline, I am your great-aunt.
Pauline. Not so very great, either; just the dearest little auntie in the world. And you don’t seem a bit old. Why, your hair isn’t hardly a bit gray. Besides, there was Mrs. Atherton, in our home town, was married just before I came here, and she was sixty-three.
Aunt P. She was a widow, dear.
Pauline. What difference did that make? They said that Mr. Buffinton was her first lover, but that her father had separated them, and every one was glad to see her married.
Aunt P. Very nice and romantic, dear, but, as I said before, she was a widow, and that makes a great deal of difference. If she had been a maiden lady, every one would have called her silly, and laughed at her.
Pauline. I don’t see why.
Aunt P. Nor I, dear, truly, but the fact remains that they do. It would take quite a strong-minded woman to face it. I couldn’t, I’m sure.
Pauline. But, Auntie——
(Stops abruptly, as bell rings.)
Aunt P. Some one is coming! I——
(Rises, but sits down hastily, as she hears steps.)
Amos (entering). Well, Polly, I’ve come for the answer to that letter.
(Pauline slips out.)
Aunt P. Why, Amos, aren’t you a stranger? How do you do?
Amos. I’ll tell you how I’m going to do. I’m going to have an answer to that letter.
Aunt P. What letter? Do sit down, Amos! You make me nervous.
Amos (seating himself). Well, I’ve sat down. Now how about the answer to that letter?
Aunt P. That letter?
Amos. Yes, that letter. It’s no use to fence for time, Polly. I’m going to have an answer. Didn’t you get a valentine letter from me to-day?
Aunt P. Amos, you never sent that letter to-day. It was old. It looked old, and it had a three-cent stamp. Three-cent stamps have been out of use thirty years and more.
Amos. Then you did get it?
Aunt P. Yes, but I don’t understand it, and I’m all upset about it. It was like a voice from the dead.
Amos. It was, Polly, a voice from the dead past. That letter should have reached you forty years ago.
Aunt P. Did you write that forty years ago, Amos? And why didn’t you send it? Why send it now, after all these years?
Amos. I did send it, dear heart. There’s a mystery about that letter that we will talk about later. Just now I want my answer.
Aunt P. Your answer, now?
Amos. Yes, now. Polly, dear, I’ve waited forty years for my answer. Isn’t that long enough to keep a man waiting?
Aunt P. But, Amos, forty years changes things.
Amos. It hasn’t changed my love for you any. I’ve tried to down it for forty years because I thought I’d got my answer. But have that answer I must and will.
Aunt P. But, Amos——
Amos. Let’s go back a bit, Polly. You used to like me when we were little playmates, now didn’t you?
Aunt P. Yes, of course. You were the nicest boy I knew.
Amos. And when we went to the old Academy together. You liked me then?
Aunt P. Why, yes, of course, Amos.
Amos. And if you’d got that letter when you were meant to get it, you’d have said yes; now, wouldn’t you?
Aunt P. Why——
Amos. You would, Polly, now wouldn’t you? Come, own up; it’s forty years past.
Aunt P. Why, yes.
Amos. Then you’ll say it now. You’ve just got it, and I’ve come for my answer, as I said I should. Isn’t it yes, Polly dearest?
Aunt P. But, Amos, I’m an old woman now.
Amos. And I’m an old man. I’m sixty.
Aunt P. I’m sure that isn’t old! For a man, I mean.
Amos. Then fifty-eight isn’t old—for a woman. Polly, I’ve everything but the thing I want most. I’ve no real home. I’m lonesome, dear. I’ve been lonesome for forty years—forty years that the locusts have eaten. Must I always be lonely, Polly?
Aunt P. But think what people would say, Amos.
Amos. I don’t care what people say, Polly. I only care for you, and to know that you care. And you do care, Polly, I know. Else why have you kept single all these years? Besides, if you didn’t care, you’d have said no and you haven’t said it. You’ve fenced. Polly, you did care. Don’t you care any longer? Tell me!
Aunt P. Y-yes, Amos, I did care.
Amos. And you’ve got over it? You no longer care? Ah, you can’t say no. Say yes, Polly. Forty years is a long while to wait for an answer.
Aunt P. That’s it, Amos, those forty years. It looks so ridiculous.
Amos. Ridiculous, nothing! I’m waiting to hear that yes, Polly. And I shan’t go home till I hear it.
Aunt P. Well—yes, then.
Amos. Oh, Polly, my girl, to think I didn’t hear that forty years ago! We’ve lots of time to make up.
(Kisses her.)
Aunt P. Do stop, Amos; Pauline will be coming in! What will she think?
Amos. Well, as she is chief-conspirator, she won’t be surprised, so cheer up, my dear. Pauline ran out to the post-office. I hear her coming now. (Calls.) Come here, you little niece of mine, and congratulate me.
Pauline (coming in). Is it true, really? Oh, Auntie dear, I am so glad! (Kisses her, then goes to Amos and kisses him.) Thank you, Uncle Amos that is to be, for my lovely valentine. And I’m glad you got the right answer.
Aunt P. Pauline! Did you know?
Amos. Didn’t I tell you she was chief conspirator? She brought it all about. You shall be bridesmaid, Polly girl, and choose what you please for a gift.
Pauline. That will be lovely. When is it to be?
Amos. Soon.
Aunt P. Oh, no, not very soon.
Amos. Yes, soon, very soon. Good land, Polly, isn’t forty years long enough?
Aunt P. But what had you to do with this, Pauline? And where has that letter been all these years?
Pauline. Why, you see, Auntie, when I put the old valentines away I dropped one, and when I tried to open the drawer it stuck. I jerked it hard, to open it, and when it opened—— (Opens drawer.) Look! That’s what I saw, and the letter was on top.
Aunt P. Why, how did that box come there? It looks like a drawer.
Amos (pulling the drawer out, and looking in). It was, Polly, a secret drawer, just above this one. Evidently this had to be taken entirely out to reach it, but one support has come loose, so it dropped into the other drawer.
Aunt P. (taking secret drawer in her lap). I never knew there was a secret drawer in this table. Why, Amos! They’re Grandmother’s things! The ones we never could find! Here’s her gold beads, and her gold thimble, and Grandpa’s watch, and—this was Uncle Robert’s little shoe—he died, you know, when he was a year old—and this box is full of hair—Father’s curls, I do believe! That’s all. No. (Lifts paper in bottom of drawer.) This is her marriage certificate! We knew there was a secret drawer in the desk, where she kept money. She showed that to Father about a year before she died. But this—and how did my valentine get there? How did Grandma get it before it was mailed?
Amos. That’s plain enough. She ran in that morning to show Mother a new patch-work pattern. The letter lay on the desk, and she chaffed me about it. Then she offered to play Cupid, and put it into your own hand. Thinking you would get it earlier that way, I consented. So when I called that night, and you were not at home, I thought it was a kind way of saying no, and went away to get over it. I couldn’t, though, and came back a year later, as you know. But why your grandmother didn’t give it to you, I don’t see. She was always a woman to trust.
Aunt P. I understand that part of it. When she got home I had gone with Tim, and it was that night she had a shock, Amos. She never spoke again, and died a week later.
Amos. And if I hadn’t run away on the first train the next morning I would have known it, and might have mistrusted that you didn’t get it! Oh, the years that the locusts have eaten! That was one of her own expressions, you remember.
Aunt P. But why didn’t you bring the letter to me, Pauline, instead of to Amos?
Pauline. I didn’t give it to either, Auntie. I mailed it. If I’d given it to you, you’d have read it, and cried over it, and treasured it, but you’d never have let—Uncle Amos—see it or know of it, now would you?
Aunt P. Not at this late day. It would have been equivalent to a proposal from me. But I would always have treasured the thought that he did love me, after all. That I had not given my love unsought, something which has shamed me to myself all these years.
Pauline. And if I had given it to you, Mr. Hill——
Amos. Uncle Amos is good enough, Polly girl.
Pauline. If I had given it to you, Uncle Amos, would you have mailed it?
Amos. No, I should have thought it too late.
Pauline. So you see I did the best possible thing, and the letter reached the right one, and the result is all I hoped for.
Aunt P. But how did you know about it, Amos?
Amos. Oh, the mischievous Cupid came and told me after she had mailed it, so——
Aunt P. So you thought I’d expect you?
Amos. No, I didn’t. But the chance was too good to let slide. I’d never had an answer after all, and I came for it, as I said I would. I got it, too, just the answer I wanted. ’Tisn’t every man who has to wait forty years for his answer. And now, Pauline, what is the shortest time required to rig up a wedding gown? A week?
Aunt P. A week! The idea!
Amos. I’m talking to little Polly. Isn’t a week long enough?
Pauline. I think you’d better give her two.
Amos. Two it is, then, and not a minute longer. Order your rig out, little girl, the nicest and prettiest you can find, and I’ll pay for it. You deserve it. And you’re to be our adopted daughter, and spend every minute your parents can spare you with us. We’ll have a motor, childie, and anything else we want, and Polly and I will do our best to make up the forty years we have lost.
Pauline. Oh, I’m so glad I did it! I didn’t hardly dare! It sounds like a romance.
Aunt P. It is! To think of a lost valentine turning up after forty years!
CURTAIN
The Queen of Hearts