And at last only Miss Snaith was left, poor Miss Snaith and her Theodore bear.
May was in the garden, cutting the big solid mauve-pink roses, dew-cool and sweet. She felt happy and young, she whistled to herself. He certainly wasn’t an ordinary plumber, anyone could see that. So handsome, with those thick lashes, curling back from bright blue eyes, those strong brown hands—And the way he looked at her, the way he blushed when she spoke to him—oh!
The trouble was, he probably thought of her as a sort of Madonna, so high above him. There ought to be some way of letting people know. Perhaps when he came this morning she could drop a rose at his feet while she was saying goodmorning—everyone knew a rose meant love.
“What became of May Campion?”
“Didn’t you hear? She eloped with a plumber!”
“Good heavens! A daughter of that proud old family!”
“And the strange thing is, she is radiantly happy—I have never seen her look so beautiful. He is utterly mad about her, everybody says.”
A bee circled buzzing about a rose, and lighted on it, clinging, burrowing into it, pushing deep into its sweetness; and May, watching it, felt the blood leap to her face, began to tremble.
“Isn’t the plumber coming today?” she asked Maggie casually as she put her flowers in water.
“He’s been and gone. He’s finished the job—isn’t that nice? I was afraid he’d have to come two or three times again.”
“He’s through?”
“Yes—May, what’s the matter? May!”
“I don’t mind for myself,” May said through strangled sobs. “But he’ll be so disappointed!” And then she began to scream; “You did it! You did it! You sent him away because you were jealous!”
“May!”
“You always have been of everyone who was ever in love with me! You stole Edward from me—you did, you did! He came to see me, and you stole him, but you couldn’t keep him! Well, I hope you’re satisfied, you and Victor—”
“Victor never harmed you or anyone in all his life.”
“Didn’t he? Didn’t he? He kept me from marrying Wadsworth Robinson. Oh, yes, he did; if it hadn’t been for Victor I’d have been happily married today—Wadsworth loved me, and I’d have been happy with him, if Victor hadn’t shown me how silly he was, laughing and making fun of him. And he kept Mamma from marrying Mr. Lacey, he kept you from marrying Edward—he’s done nothing but harm, all his life.”
She pressed her shaking hands against her mouth, she looked at Maggie with desperate, wet, red eyes.
“Oh, Maggie, I’m so unhappy—I wish I could die—”
Miss Snaith couldn’t decide whether or not to send Mr. Campion a valentine. Would he think it was funny of her? Of course, he might not guess who it came from—but in that case there wouldn’t be much point in sending it.
There were some very pretty ones at Butler’s. “The is red, the blue”—what did that mean? It didn’t make sense. Oh, yes, there were pictures of a rose and a violet, instead of the words. That was dainty! Quaint, too, once you caught on. And this red heart, with the border of forget-me-nots—
A Teddy bear! What next! A Teddy bear looking through a hole in a pink heart, and a little verse:
“Please bear in mind, I hope you do,
A tender heart that beats for you.”
Just the thing! She would pretend it was from Theodore bear.
She could hardly wait for Jake to bring the mail on St. Valentine’s Day. There it was, her envelope with its printed address! She’d have fun watching him when he opened it—but she knew she would blush. Another envelope for him, that looked like a wedding invitation, a postcard from Miss Lily—just a guild-meeting—an envelope that looked like a valentine for Miss May, and a florist’s square box—violets, if Miss Snaith wasn’t mistaken. Now who could be sending violets? Nothing for herself.
“Saint Valentine’s been good to you, Miss May.”
“A valentine?”
“Yes, you and Mr. Campion seem to be the only ones favored.”
“Who’s been sending me a valentine? Oh, and violets! Oh, Miss Snaith, smell—mm!” She pressed the violets she had sent herself against Miss Snaith’s nose.
“My, what a big bunch! Somebody must like someone, sure ’nuff!” Miss Snaith said, sniffing enviously. She wished Miss May would open her envelope—not that she was curious, just interested. But May took it and went upstairs to her room, humming and smelling her violets.
Behind her locked door she dropped the violets on the floor and ripped open the envelope. There was a daub in red and green and yellow, a hideous sharp-nosed creature with a cat on her bony knees. “A Hopeless Old Maid,” the black letters said beneath the picture.
“ ‘Oh, for a man’ has been your prayer
For many long and weary years,
But all your wiles, both sly and bold,
The males have met with heartless jeers.
Now, surely, you must know, yourself,
That longer hope is wholly vain,
And that a pitiful, sour Old Maid
The rest of life you must remain.”
Miss Snaith wanted to get into the bathroom—of course! May had been in there for hours—over an hour, anyway. The water had stopped running ever so long ago, and yet every time Miss Snaith in her old rose flannelette wrapper looked out into the hall, the bathroom door was still shut.
Well, she’d just lie down on her bed and close her eyes a few minutes. They said that made one look fresh in the evening. “I wonder what he’ll say when he opens that valentine!” she thought.
She got up and had another look. The door was still shut. What smelled so good? Gingerbread baking for dessert. She hoped they’d have whipped cream with it, instead of lemon sauce—she might just say she didn’t think lemon sauce agreed with
