Mr. Dalken shook his head as a concession to her eager look. And Polly continued: “Did you send me those American Beauties’ valentine?”
A roar greeted this question, as everyone of the grown-ups had asked the same question of Mr. Dalken months before. And Mr. Dalken not only repudiated any knowledge of the valentine but told how he had visited the florist and had not been able to ascertain who the Cupid really was.
“Polly, I will confess, as they say that open confession is good for the soul. I was guilty of sending four boxes of flowers to the Studio on Valentine Day, to four charming friends, but I showed no partiality, I think, in the bouquets. I would like to know, myself, who the Cupid was who sent such gorgeous roses as you received.”
“I wonder! I’m sure it wasn’t Jim,” here Polly looked searchingly at the young student, and he shook his head laughingly.
“I couldn’t have, had I wanted to. My pocket money went for that love-sonnet that was so harshly condemned,” said he.
“And I’m sure Ken never dreamed of doing it. Then there is Mr. Latimer and the doctor – they are both innocent, I know, as they never think of anything other than the old patented jewel cutter.”
As Polly explained thus in earnest tones, everyone laughed at the two men so calmly criticised for their absorption in patents.
“So I am inclined to believe it was my own Daddy. He always did send me the cutest valentines each year, and I received no card from him this year – so that is who it was!” declared Polly.
“And the only kind of a Cupid to have, these days, Polly,” approved Mr. Dalken.
But the happy circle standing on the platform of the train-shed were now notified that the passengers must get on as the train would leave in a few moments.
Good-bys were said, hands shaken, kisses wafted from the girls to the group remaining in New York, and then the travelers were gone.
Scarcely had the train slowed up in the Chicago Terminal before John and Tom Latimer were on board, pushing a way through the Pullmans, in search of familiar faces.
“There they are – there comes John!” cried Polly, excitedly, jumping up and pointing to the other end of the coach.
“Oh – !” sighed Anne, flushing joyously as her glance rested upon her fiancé.
But John had no eyes for anyone but Anne. Polly was left standing with hands out-stretched, her whole soul quivering with anticipation of her beloved brother’s greeting, and now he forgot she was alive! Then Paul Stewart and Pete Maynard ran in.
Mrs. Stewart was embraced by Paul, and Pete hugged his sister Eleanor. Tom Latimer stood a pace apart, his features working desperately to control his feelings as he saw John joyously scanning Anne’s face, and Polly limply sitting down in the parlor chair. Then he quickly went over and greeted her.
“Polly, and you boys” – turning to Jim and Kenneth – “we sure are happy to see you-all again. My, what a change New York has made in you. I see quite a wonderful young lady, where once I remember my little ranch pal with pigtails.” Tom tried to laugh merrily.
Kenneth suddenly launched into a silly conversation to cheer Polly. But Polly never could dissimulate, and she was too deeply hurt at her brother’s neglect to pretend to be merry. John, however, now turned to embrace and kiss his sister, and evidently had had no thought of neglecting her.
“Come, children, we must get out or we’ll be carried to the round-house,” suggested Jim Latimer, taking up certain bags.
Once on the platform where Mr. Maynard welcomed them, Tom said: “When do Ken and you go on to Denver?”
“On the next train, leaving here at two. That gives us an hour and a half with you.”
“Anyone want dinner, or did you eat on the train?” now asked Paul Stewart.
“All dined, but now waiting for someone to suggest a party for Ken and I, as we go on in a little while,” said Jim.
“Here!” offered Mr. Maynard. “Pile into taxis and we’ll be at the house in a jiffy. No place like home when there’s no other place to go to.”
So, laughing, the entire party bundled itself into cabs, John managing to get Anne and her luggage to himself. Immediately, he signalled the driver to start off.
Mr. Maynard, Paul and Mrs. Stewart got in another cab and Jim, Ken, and Eleanor in another. That left Polly and Tom Latimer, with the remaining bags, to get in the last taxi. It was all done in such noisy confusion, that no one dreamed how one clever manager had so manipulated matters as to have Polly alone in the last cab.
“Well, Polly, I hear you are soaring in your ambition. Mr. Fabian wrote me how interested he was in Nolla and you.”
“Oh, did the dear man write you? I didn’t know he and you corresponded.”
“I took a great fancy to the idealist, and having always loved art for itself, I told him I would consider it a great pleasure if he would exchange letters with me when he had the opportunity. He has done better for me than I had any right to expect. He writes the most interesting letters – just as clever as his talks on art.”
Having found a willing listener in Tom, Polly expanded on her private opinion of such a wonderful teacher as Mr. Fabian was, and before the taxi drew up in front of the Maynard’s brown-stone mansion, Tom had the comforting assurance that Polly had quite forgotten her brother John’s unintentional neglect.
Jim and Ken enjoyed their hasty visit and then took their departure to catch their train going west. When Mrs. Maynard and Barbara dispensed tea, the three young men, John, Tom and Paul, had to enter into service for the hostess; but they would greatly have preferred to enjoy their time as each inclined – John alone with Anne in the conservatory, Tom and Polly talking art, and Paul making merry with Eleanor.
Barbara, who a year ago would have resented oblivion for herself, now smiled contentedly and gazed upon a huge solitaire.
“Bob, shall we announce it?” whispered her mother.
“No, they do not know Percival, and, moreover, not one of these people appreciate his social standing.”
So the young people now gathered about Mrs. Maynard’s tea-table were deprived (so Bob thought) of the greatest event of the past social season – her engagement to one of the most aristocratic and wealthiest eligibles on the market, Percival Weston.
Barbara twirled her solitaire smilingly, nor cared that her Percival was bald and diminutive, past the prime in life, and not over-brilliant. Had he not been the catch at Newport the previous Summer? And had he not attached himself to her as soon as she appeared in the Adirondack Camp presided over by the famous society leader of New York?
CHAPTER XIII – BACK AGAIN AT PEBBLY PIT
“Oh, Nolla! Isn’t this great after old New York?” cried Polly, as they were all jostled in the big ranch-wagon driven by Mr. Brewster, as it rumbled over the trail to Pebbly Pit.
“We-all think it’s great, Poll; but wait till you see what your going to New York did to the old Pit! No one to blame for it but yourself,” laughed her father.
“We heard there was a row of buildings down behind the Imps, and that a fine roadway was constructed through the Devil’s Causeway,” said Polly, eagerly.
“But no one told you how John and Tom came here as soon as college closed, and brought a railroad man with them to see about building a spur from Bear Forks to the valley at the foot of Grizzly Slide. It’s twenty miles nearer Denver than Oak Creek, so the company agreed to risk the work if Pebbly Pit would guarantee a certain amount of travel and freight over the road.”
“Well – did you, Daddy?” asked Polly, eagerly.
“Tom Latimer did. Agreed to put up bonds for same.”
“Tom? Why Tom Latimer?” asked Eleanor.
“Oh, Tom is mighty ambitious, you know, and seems as if he liked this section better than the East. However, it is Tom we-all can thank for that new railroad. When you-all come home next year, you-all will be riding over your own tracks.” Mr. Brewster chuckled.
“Is Tom going to join that crew of engineers that John and he were with last year?” now asked Eleanor.
“No, indeed! Tom and John will be right here with us this summer. We-all need their help in working out the problems of the mine and Rainbow Cliffs,” responded Sam Brewster.
“I don’t suppose we’ll see a bit of John as long as Anne and her mother remain in Denver, visiting their old friends,” pouted Polly, jealously.
Her father glanced slyly at her, and smiled. He felt sorry for his little girl who had always felt that her brother John was her own personal property. Now that someone claimed first love and attention from him it was mighty hard for her, as well as for Mrs. Brewster.
“Ah should wonder at John if he failed in gallantry to his sweetheart,” was all Sam Brewster said aloud.
“Oh! Everyone makes me tired! Anyone’d think Anne Stewart was a saint. She’s only a girl the same as Nolla, or me. And no one is found going mad over either one of us!” cried Polly, pettishly.
Eleanor laughed. “Give us a few years and then see!”
Polly curled her lip impatiently. “A few years from now and I’ll be in Europe with dear old Fabian, studying art. I won’t want attention from anyone, then.”
“Seems to me,” ventured Mr. Brewster, gently, “my little girl is hankering for homage or a beau – which is it?”
Polly stared aghast. “Neither one! How dare you say so.”
“You-all were speaking of attention.”
“But I was only thinking of John. He’ll have Anne for a wife all his life long – after next year. But he won’t have me after I finish school.”
In spite of the tearful tone, Mr. Brewster had to laugh. “Don’t waste your time on John, Polly girl. Let me make up for him and be your devoted attendant. Ah’ll always be at your beck and call!”
“Oh, Dad! That reminds me!” exclaimed Polly, turning square around to face her father, and forgetting her recent misery over John. “How did you ever manage about that rose valentine you sent me?”
Sam Brewster let the reins dangle recklessly as he, in turn, stared at his daughter. “What valentine?”
Polly winked roguishly and laughed. “You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, Daddy. I’ve spent a whole year in New York to some advantage, you see. I have seen lots of such feigned innocence as yours.”
“But honest, Poll, Ah don’t even know what you-all are talking about; Ah got your sweet valentine, and so did maw.”
Polly frowned at her father. “Didn’t you wire to a florist in New York and order a dozen great roses for my valentine? And tie the two hearts pierced by a golden arrow, about the center of the flower-stems?”
“Positively, this is the first word Ah’ve heard of it!” declared Sam Brewster so emphatically, that the girls believed him.
“Now, Polly, the hunt is narrowing down,” laughed Eleanor. “We know it was no one in New York, and it wasn’t Jim or Ken. Your father says he didn’t do it, so it leaves only a few more to ask.”
Suddenly Polly clasped her hands. Her face was radiant. “Why, of course! How could I forget? It was dear old John! He, too, always remembered me on Valentine Day.” Then turning to her father, and shaking a finger at him, she added: “But you didn’t remember me, this year, bad man.”
“Tell truth, Polly, there was so much to think about and so much to do, over the buildings and mines, that Ah clean forgot there ever was such a day, until I got your card. Then I felt sorry.”
“Well, thank goodness, John remembered!” sighed Polly. And Eleanor noticed that she smiled again in forgiveness of her brother’s shortcomings.
When the wagon stopped at the porch of the ranch-house, Eleanor laughed: “Just as we drove up last year – but oh, how different this year!”
Mrs. Brewster hurried out to welcome her dear girls, and laughed at Eleanor’s remark. “Still making Irish bulls, Nolla!”
They all laughed merrily, and then Sary rushed from her kitchen, and clasped Polly to her ample bosom. Eleanor came in for her share of the maid’s embrace before she had to hurry back to the dinner.
“Ah’se cookin’ cabbige soup, Miss Nolla,” she explained.
“Why, Sary, that first night we were here last summer, you had ‘cabbidge’ soup, too!”
“We-all has to hev it once a week reg’ler now, ’cause Jeb loves it, an’ he is a foreman, you know.” Sary’s pride in her spouse’s promotion was most evident.
While Polly and her mother cozily sat together on the porch and smiled happily to be in each other’s company, once more, Eleanor walked to the barns with Mr. Brewster. She had an object in view, and she never delayed in finding out what she wanted to know, should the opportunity come and offer itself to her.
“Mr. Brewster, do tell me honestly —did you send the roses, or do you know who did send them to Polly?”
“Nolla, Ah never heard of them until to-day. Ah’m as curious as you, to know who sent them. What were they like, anyway?”
“Well, you must know, Mr. Brewster, that American Beauty roses like they were, cost a small fortune in New York, at that time of the year. Each one of those roses cost not less than five or six dollars. And the trinket that was bound to the stems was not a cheap thing, either. In fact, the chain was of fine, gold-plated links, and the arrows were gold-plated, too. It was an imported curio.”
“By the Great Horned Spoon! Roses that cost like that! Why, they wilted, didn’t they?” gasped Sam Brewster.
Eleanor laughed merrily. “Sure thing! But we kept them as long as possible. That is just where the joy comes in of getting costly roses – they wilt. And anyone, who will spend that much money on one, must think a heap of her first – see?”
Mr. Brewster stood stock-still. He caught at Eleanor’s arm. “Ah’ve got it!”
“What – who?” Eleanor was breathless in her eagerness.
“Find the silly swain that’s making eyes at my Polly, and you’ve caught the rascal who sent the roses.”
Eleanor screamed with laughter. “Oh, you’re funny! But isn’t that exactly what everyone’s been doing?”
“Oh – have they?”
“Sure! I learned that Mr. Fabian tried to find out who the fellow was. And then Mr. Dalken wanted to know. The Latimers and Evans put Jim and Ken through the third degree, but no one confessed to it. Now do you believe John sent them?”
“I do not!” was the positive reply.
“Neither do I! Because John sent Anne a bunch of roses for her valentine but they were only seven dollars. She got a dozen, the usual short-stemmed Bride Roses. He wouldn’t dare send his sister such gorgeous ones and only give his fiancée cheaper ones.”
Sam Brewster smiled at his companion. “Nolla, you’re a wise little owl.”
“Anyone would be, after having had the social training that was fed to me from the bottle up!”
Mr. Brewster laughed at this, and Eleanor then said: “Guess I’ll be going back, now, Mr. Brewster. I wanted to know your opinion about John and the roses.”
“Wait, Nolla. Have you any answer to it yourself?”
“U – m, yes – I have a sort of a suspicion. But it isn’t fair to anyone to even hint at it. So don’t ask me.”
“This much you might answer, however, seeing that Ah’m Polly’s father and the most concerned in the beaux she has. Do you fancy it might have been your brother Pete?”
“Pete!” The very tone made Mr. Brewster smile as he saw that Eleanor had never thought of him. “Anyway, Pete and Poll hardly know each other.”
“Ah wonder if it could have been Paul Stewart – he seemed dreadfully attentive to her that time when we-all were visiting you-all in New York.” Mr. Brewster watched Eleanor shrewdly.
“I just guess it wasn’t Paul! He sent me a lovely card for a valentine; and while we were home in Chicago, I asked him about flowers. He never thought to wire a florist about sending me any flowers, he said. So I know Paul hadn’t anything to do with it.”
“Ah! Well, Nolla, now we know who he was, eh?” laughed Sam Brewster, tweaking Eleanor’s ear and hastening away to the barns.
Eleanor stood watching him. Then she laughed softly: “He sure did put one over on me, that time!”
As she walked slowly back to the ranch-house she soliloquized to herself. “That’s just who it was. Gee! It’s almost as fine as having a romance of my very own. But Polly doesn’t want it so.
“All the same, when John and Tom come down here, I’m going to tease Tom about the wonderful roses Polly’s brother sent her. Then we’ll see what we’ll see!”
Eleanor could keep her own counsel as well as Sam Brewster, but the two exchanged wise looks, now and then, when no one was watching. Still, never a word was said again on the rose subject.
A week after the two girls got home, the others in the party came down from Denver. Mrs. Stewart was to be Mrs. Brewster’s guest that Summer, Eleanor was Polly’s, and Anne said she was John’s visitor. Then Tom Latimer laughed and said: “I’ll have to be Mr. Brewster’s pal.”
“I can promise you that you won’t have your head turned by any pretty school-girl, Tom, if you are my guest,” chuckled Sam Brewster.
Eleanor tittered, Tom flushed, but the others laughed at such a speech.
Plans had been made to take a three-day trip up over Top Notch Trail, and inspect the progress on the mine, but Mrs. Brewster and her guest would remain at home, by preference.
The merry cavalcade started out, Polly on her beloved Noddy as usual, and Eleanor on Choko. The others rode their horses, and Jeb led an extra horse with the packs.
There was no planned order in riding; first one girl would have one of the escort, and then another would ride up and “cut in” to urge the other onward. Thus everyone was laughing and teasing and talking merrily until they reached the falls on top of the mountains. Here, where Polly had caught the trout, the year before, they all had dinner.
“My goodness! Folks in New York never know what they miss by never coming to the Rockies,” declared Polly, her eyes wandering to the far-off line of mountain-ranges.
“And folks who live near these mountains are never happy until they get to New York,” remarked Mr. Brewster.
Polly laughed. “Oh, that is when one needs education. I have always had too much mountain and not enough of other good things. But now that I am tasting a little of everything, I like my mountains as well as anything I’ve seen.”
“D’ye think you-all will stay at home after this?” eagerly asked her father.
“Double no!” affirmed Polly, emphatically.
Everyone laughed at the expressive slang, and Polly added: “At least, not until I have seen Europe, year after next, and tried a hand in my profession. Maybe – if I fall in love, some day – I’ll come back to Pebbly Pit to raise my family.”
John Brewster thought this so funny that he ha-ha-haed loudly, but the others smiled doubtfully. Eleanor could not help sending a swift look at Tom Latimer to see how he received the information. But Tom was scrambling to his feet, so his face could not be observed. Eleanor glanced away from him to Sam Brewster, and saw the latter with a twinkle cornering his eyes as he noticed Tom’s awkward movement.
“U – m!” muttered Eleanor. “I’ve got your number, Tom Latimer!” But no one overheard her whispered thought.
As the riders proceeded on their way, Paul Stewart said: “I don’t see why you folks should think this such a tough trail. I consider it rather broad and good.”
“Humph! It’s a highway these days, what with all the riding up and down. But last year you wouldn’t have been able to see any thing but trees and rocks,” Polly returned.
It was as Polly said: almost as clear a trail as any woodland road. At Four-Mile-Blaze where the girls were well-nigh lost on their first ride over the trail, there now was a good but narrow bridle-path. Thence it was easy going up the steep side to Grizzly Slide.
“W-ell! See the crowd of men working up there? And hear the sound of tools and machinery!” exclaimed Polly, as she rode out of the screening forest, and came to a man-made clearing.
“Of all things! Trees chopped down and turned into huts; an army of workmen living here as if they belonged,” added Eleanor.
“We are blasting and clearing away the rubble that hides your mine. We had both ends working a few weeks ago, but now we are trying to drop a shaft from the top,” said Mr. Brewster.
The visitors camped at the miners’ settlement, that night, and the next day the girls were taken about to see the great progress made according to the plans to mine the ore.
A cable-road was being built from Choko’s Cave down the steep mountain-side, to the valley, and this was to be used to carry the ore-cars up and down. As the girls stood on top of the ledge that overhung the cave, they could look straight down the awesome mountain-side, where the forest had been cleared for the cable-line.
“It looks as if it all cost a heap of money,” said Polly.
She had been so engaged in looking at the change wrought in her beloved mountain, that she failed to see that the others had wandered away. But someone stood behind her. She felt it. As no reply came to her statement, she turned and found Tom Latimer waiting for her.
“Oh, where are the others?”
“Gone over to the other side where the underground river comes out, you know.”
“I was saying, Tom, that this must have taken a lot of money.”
“More than we figured on, but once we begin to get out the ore, it will roll back four-fold.”
Polly was impressed, but still wondered “Where did all the money come from, Tom?”
“Stocks. We wanted to keep most of the Capital for you and the first owners, you know; but investors wouldn’t put up so much money without a vote. So we had to sell out some of the voting shares. That’s where Mr. Dalken came in – he bought a big block of your stock, and it is his money that’s doing this.”
“I think he is the nicest man! I used to think he sent me a wonderful bunch of American Beauty roses for a valentine, but I only learned the other day that it was John! Wasn’t it funny?”
Tom laughed with Polly, and said: “What made you think Mr. Dalken sent them?”
“Oh, something happened once to Nolla and me, in New York that nobody knows – so don’t you go and tell on us, Tom!” Polly waited anxiously to get Tom’s promise, then she proceeded.
“And Mr. Dalken happened along in time to save us from the beasts. After that he made us use his small automobile when we went to night-school. We were awfully grateful to him for it.
“Then when Valentine Day came along, I suggested to Nolla that we send him a lovely card telling him how good he was to us. I sent it, and late that night the roses came. I felt sure, all the time, that he sent them; I thought he had forgotten it was Valentine Day until after my card reached him. I always wondered why he didn’t put Nolla’s name on the card, too, as well as mine. But now I know he never sent them.”
“Does John know you’ve found him out?” asked Tom.
“No, not yet; but some day I’ll tease him about it.”
“Don’t! let him think you are still trying to guess who sent the roses. It will tickle him to pieces to believe you think it is an ardent admirer of yours.” Tom laughed merrily with Polly at the very idea.
“That’s just what I will! And you and I will sometimes pretend you sent the roses to me, and then we will watch John’s face. Maybe he will up and tell the truth!” added Polly.
“No, I doubt it. You see, Polly, John is a wonderful actor, and one never knows just what he thinks. If he managed to keep a close mouth to me, his best friend, all this time, it must be because he didn’t want Anne to find out he sent you such roses.”
Then the two conspirators walked back to join the others, but Polly and Tom felt that they had a good joke between them, thereafter.