Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 4, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 February 1892 — VAL’S VALENTINE. [ARTICLE]

VAL’S VALENTINE.

Valerie Olaxton, that’s my name, and t live “uptown”—l'm not going to say where, and you won’t find it im the directory, because I live with my married aunt, and -sides —but I mustn’t be in too great a hurry. Whether I’m pretty or not is a matter ©! opinion. I, of course, do not incline to thinking myself quite a horror, for any mirror tells me, when I consult it—which is quite as often as other girls—-that I have bright eyes and white teeth, and a‘ dimple in each cheek, and a figure that always seems to fit my dresses. lamby no means rich, It is true, but no girl can consider herself poor who possesses a good typewriter »nd skill to use it. Both these qualifications belong to me, and for nearly a year I have held a good position in Mr. John Postlethwaite’s office, and from 9 to 4 every day I gayly rattle the keys of my typewriter. Mr. Postlethwalte is a rich produce broker, and, though he is not at all old, I never looked upon him as a young man —he is so grove and silent. Although I saw him every morning, he never said more than “Good-day, Miss Claxton,” fend I declare I could not have told you whether he was fair or dark, for I seldom ventured to raise my eyes to his. All through the day I sat in my comer, curtained off from the other clerks, and far too busy to take any notice of them, or of anyone else, except—ah! here is a tremendous exception, for I had a constant visitor, my sweetheart! I should montion that Postlethwalte was a widower. That, perhaps, was partly the cause of his seriousness, for I have beard that his wife was young and beauful, and that he loved her dearly. They bad been married but a few years when 3he died, leaving him a baby 3 years old. That baby was now 5, and every day, except in the summer when he was away at Long Island on his father’s farm, little Jack would come In the carriage and fetch Mr. Postlethwalte away. The very first day I took possession as my curtained corner, just as the dock was on the stroke of four, the toveliest little head in the world peeped around my desk, and a pair of big, roguish eyes, blue as heaven, looked up, laughing, into mine. Then the head disappeared, and I saw no more of those sweet eyes until the next afternoon. Then, however, the little rogue, with all the confidence imaginable, walked inside the curtain, and revealed the daintiest darling, picturesquely clad in black velvet, with long golden curls falling over his deep lace collar. I fell In love with him on the spot, and I am bound to say the passion was mutual, tor he sat on my knee and returned my kisses with Interest, and when the following day I cemented the friendship with an offering of French candles we pledged eternal fidelity in the spirit, if not in the letter. The day was indeed a dull one to me that did not bring my little Jack to kiss his sweetheart Val.

The winter passed, and at Christmas and New Year’s Jack and I exchanged appropriate gifts—Jack always assuring me earnestly that his presents had been jiis own unbiased choice, and purchased with his own money from his own money box. I noticed that as early as February days slipped away Jack became immensely mysterious. His little bosom swelled some tremendous secret, and sometimes, after gazing at me for a few seconds with widening eyes, he would ripple with delicious little gusts of laughter from head to foot. After these tiny explosions he would kiss me veaemently, and rush away as though if raid to trust his secret any longer in ny presence. I cannot pretend to say that I had no inkling of coming events, and, sure enough, when I arrived in the office on St. Valentine's morning, there on my desk lay a package, sealed almost all over with red sealing wax, and with the stamps and address huddled into one comer, as though of very secondary account. I opened it as eagerly, I declare, as any girl in New York that day who hoped to find her valentine handsomer than that of her bosom friend. There was a beautiful little hand-painted eatofeet, tied with a big bow of white satin ribbon, and—herein lay the cause of Jack's mysterious rapture—a ietter partly printed, partly written in wonderful hieroglyphics, but all his own writing and composition: “dere darling val. i luv uso mush do wate till 1 am a man so we can be maried. i will be as quick as i can, uno 1 am quite big now i luv u wid all my hart, u ar mi only darlin, ure luvin Jack. ” Now, I am very fond of children, and never having had brother or sister, or niece or nephew, or little one brought close to me by any tie," my whole heart went out to my baby lover, and anyone who chooses may think me a fool when I own that a tear —I scarcely know if it was a sweet or bitter one —fell on that attle smeared and blotted scrawl. The next minute, however, I laughed heartily, and, although I had already sent Jack a pretty valentine, I resolved to write him an answer to his letter, and, to make it more legible to him, I used my type-writer. Tide is what I said: “My Darling —l will wait for you until you are quite a man, and you shall always be my only sweetheart. Who could help loving such a dear pet? Certainly not your own Val.” This I addressed to Me. John Postlethwaitb, Jb. Madison Avenue. I ran and mailed it myself, and then waited all day in expectation of Jack’s visit in the afternoon to ratify our contract. By some chance he never came. I saw it was no use stopping when Mr. Postlethwaite passed out of the office* without waiting for the carriage, and as I went home I bought a box of candiod fruit, so that when he came the next day we might have a feast to celebrate the occasion. The same evening about 8 I was in our little parlor, playing dreamy melodies for my own delectation, in the dark, when a ring came at the bell, and a minute after the colored damsel who rules our household opened the door with: . “A gemman to see you, Miss Valerie." • I sprang to my feet, turned up the gas

and founrt myself face to face with Mr, Posteltwalte. To say that I was surprised would give no idea of my feelings. I could just command voice enough to offer him a seat, which he accepted, and, as I sank Into a chair, I noticed that he had a type-written note in his hand—one which seemed familiar to me. I raised my eyes to his and found them bent on me with a curious but not urgent expression, and, without knowing why, the blood rose to, my cheeks in hot blushes. “I ought to apologize for disturbing you at this hour, Miss Claxton,” he said —he had a pleasant voice, and It sounded much less grave than usual. “But I am afraid that I have intercepted a letter that was not intended for me. I am John Postlewaite, Jr., my father lives in the 6ame house with me.” I saw it all now; but, good heavens! could not the man understand? Why need he come to ask me? His baby could have explained. “Really,” I stammered, scarcely knowing what I said. “I didn’t know—l should have thought " “Oh, don’t apologize,” he replied, and his eyes laughed, though he still kept his countenance. “Nothing can be said to relieve my disappointment. For a moment I indulged in a’wild hope that it was a valentine for me; but I quite understand that I cannot expect to rival my son. However, though neither you nor he seemed to consider my consent necessary, I thought I would call up and express my entire approval of Jack’s choice." We looked at each ether, and both laughed heartily. Who would have thought that the grave Mr. Postlethwaite could laugh so heartily? Th«i he drew the chair a little nearer.

“Miss Claxton," he said, “I know you a great deal better than you know me. I have watched you often when you little suspected it, and, besides, my boy’s constant theme is ‘Val.’ Children are close observers, and he couldn’t be so fond of you without good reason. Now, suppose we laid our heads together, don’t you think we might devise a plan by which poor Jack wouldn’t be kept waiting so long " “Mr. Postlethwaite,” I interrupted, attempting to rise, but he restrained me by placing his hand gently but firmly upon mine. “Miss Claxton," he said, earnestly, “months ago I began loving you for my boy’s sake. I soon learned to love you for my own sake. Don’t suppose that I wish to startle you into an answer; but tell me that there is no one dearer than Jack to rival me, and, if it be so, let me have a chance to win you for myself.” “What will Jack say?” I murmured with a smile I could not repress. “Will you take his verdict?” he cried, eagerly. “He is outside in the carriage, waiting most impatiently to be allowed to see his VaL You see I didn’t venture to come without providing myself with a champion. ” He hurried out, and in a minute afterward returned with Jack in a state of intense excitement, who, being deposited on my lap, smothered me with kisses, and demanded an instant reply to his letter. “Jack.” said his father, before I could answer, “how would you like to have ‘Val’ at once, without waiting to grow up into a man?” “Whatl now?” cried the boy, opening wide his big blue eyes. “Take her back in the carriage?” “Well—no—l’m afraid we could hardly hope for that, ’’ laughed his father. “Well—when?” demanded Jack. “I think you and Valerie had better settle that between you,” was the politic reply. “I am content to leave it to you." “Weil, then, to-morrow,” said Jack, decidedly. “I don’t seem to have much voice in the matter,” I cried. “Mr. Postleththwaite—you said you wouldn’t hurry me —I haven’t had time to think yet whether I care enough for you to marry you at all.” Jack looked from one to the other of us and a dawn of indignant comprehension quivered over his bright little face. “You’s not going to marry papa,” he said,’ fixing his eyes on me finally. “You’s going to marry me—l asked you first!” I made a little bow to Mr. Poetleth waite. “You have your answer, sir," I said. He sat down —this time on the sofa beside me—and took Jack on his lap. “My little son,” he said, coaxingly, “if Valerie waits until you are a man you will only see her In the office, and then when you are a little bigger and go to college you won’t see her at all for months at a time. But if you persuade her to marry me she will be your very own mamma and you will have her all day long all to yourself while I am down town She will wake you in the meming with a kiss and sing you to sleep at night. Don’t you think that’s better than waiting?” Jack put his little fat forefinger in his pouting mouth and looked steadily at me, but declined to compromise himself by any remark. “Persuade him, Valerie,” said his father, entreatingly, to me.

“Not I!” I exclaimed. “Settle it between you.” Suddenly Jack transferred himself to my lap. “Will you always kiss me in the morning when I awake?” he said. I looked out of the comer of my eye at his father, and bit my lip, without answering. “Will you, Val—dear Val?” pleaded Jack. How could I refuse to say “yes." “And sing me to sleep nights?” he persisted. Again I was constrained to say “yes." His sweet eyes brightened, and he threw his chubby arms around my neck. “Dear, darling Val!” he cried, kissing me vigorously. “You may marry papa; but you mustn’t ever like him better’n me. You may kiss Val now, papa," he added, magnanimously. “And if you can’t be married now we must come tomorrow and fetch you away. ” Then, as it occurred to him that he felt sleepy, he dropped his head on my shoulder and demanded, with baby imperiousness, to be sung to sleep forthwith. I placed him gently in his father’s arms, and kissed the half-closed eyes. “He’s mine now,” I said, looking John Postlethwaite for the first time full in the face. “But I’ll lend him to you sometimes.”—S. Ada Fisher, in Drake’s Magazine.