Books: An Old fashioned Girl

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Polly had seen a good deal of him during her visits at the Shaws',
where he was intimate, owing to the friendship between Madam
and his mother; but she had never thought of him as a possible
lover for either Fanny or herself because he was six or eight years
older than they, and still sometimes assumed the part of a
venerable mentor, as in the early days. Lately this had changed,
especially towards Polly, and it flattered her more than she would
confess even to herself. She knew he admired her one talent,
respected her independence, and enjoyed her society; but when
something warmer and more flattering than admiration, respect, or
pleasure crept into his manner, she could not help seeing that one
of the good gifts of this life was daily coming more and more
within her reach, and began to ask herself if she could honestly
receive the gift, and reward the giver.

At first she tried to think she could, but unfortunately hearts are so
"contrary" that they won't be obedient to reason, will, or even
gratitude. Polly felt a very cordial friendship for Mr. Sydney, but
not one particle of the love which is the only coin in which love
can be truly paid. Then she took a fancy into her head that she
ought to accept this piece of good fortune for the sake of the
family, and forget herself. But this false idea of self-sacrifice did
not satisfy, for she was not a fashionable girl trained to believe that
her first duty was to make "a good match" and never mind the
consequences, though they rendered her miserable for life. Polly's
creed was very simple: "If I don't love him, I ought not to marry
him, especially when I do love somebody else, though everything
is against me." If she had read as many French novels as some
young ladies, she might have considered it interesting to marry
under the circumstances and suffer a secret anguish to make her a
romantic victim. But Polly's education had been neglected, and
after a good deal of natural indecision she did what most women
do in such cases, thought she would "wait and see."

The discovery of Fanny's secret seemed to show her something to
do, for if the "wait and see" decision was making her friend
unhappy, it must be changed as soon as possible. This finished
Polly's indecision, and after that night she never allowed herself to
dwell upon the pleasant temptation which came in a guise
particularly attractive to a young girl with a spice of the old Eve in
her composition. So day after day she trudged through the dull
back streets, longing for the sunny park, the face that always
brightened when it saw her coming, and most of all the chance of
meeting well, it was n't Trix.

When Saturday came, Polly started as usual for a visit to Becky
and Bess, but could n't resist stopping at the Shaws' to leave a little
parcel for Fan, though it was calling time. As she stepped in,
meaning to run up for a word if Fanny should chance to be alone,
two hats on the hall table arrested her.

"Who is here, Katy?"

"Only Mr. Sydney and Master Tom. Won't you stop a bit, Miss
Polly?"

"Not this morning, I 'm rather in a hurry." And away went Polly as
if a dozen eager pupils were clamoring for her presence. But as the
door shut behind her she felt so left out in the cold, that her eyes
filled, and when Nep, Tom's great Newfoundland, came
blundering after her, she stopped and hugged his shaggy head,
saying softly, as she looked into the brown, benevolent eyes, full of
almost human sympathy: "Now, go back, old dear, you must n't
follow me. Oh, Nep, it 's so hard to put love away when you want
it very much and it is n't right to take it." A foolish little speech to
make to a dog, but you see Polly was only a tender-hearted girl,
trying to do her duty.

"Since he is safe with Fanny, I may venture to walk where I like. It
's such a lovely day, all the babies will be out, and it always does
me good to see them," thought Polly, turning into the wide, sunny
street, where West End-dom promenaded at that hour.

The babies were out in full force, looking as gay and delicate and
sweet as the snow-drops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks
whence the snow had melted. But somehow the babies did n't do
Polly the good she expected, though they smiled at her from their
carriages, and kissed their chubby hands as she passed them, for
Polly had the sort of face that babies love. One tiny creature in
blue plush was casting despairing glances after a very small lord of
creation who was walking away with a toddling belle in white,
while a second young gentleman in gorgeous purple gaiters was
endeavoring to console the deserted damsel.

"Take hold of Master Charley's hand, Miss Mamie, and walk
pretty, like Willy and Flossy," said the maid.

"No, no, I want to do wid Willy, and he won't let me. Do 'way,
Tarley, I don't lite you," cried little Blue-bonnet, casting down her
ermine muff and sobbing in a microscopic handkerchief, the
thread-lace edging on which could n't mitigate her woe, as it might
have done that of an older sufferer.

"Willy likes Flossy best, so stop crying and come right along, you
naughty child."

As poor little Dido was jerked away by the unsympathetic maid,
and Purple-gaiters essayed in vain to plead his cause, Polly said to
herself, with a smile and a sigh; "How early the old story begins!"

It seemed as if the spring weather had brought out all manner of
tender things beside fresh grass and the first dandelions, for as she
went down the street Polly kept seeing different phases of the
sweet old story which she was trying to forget.

At a street corner, a black-eyed school-boy was parting from a
rosy-faced school-girl, whose music roll he was reluctantly
surrendering.

"Don't you forget, now," said the boy, looking bashfully into the
bright eyes that danced with pleasure as the girl blushed and
smiled, and answered reproachfully; "Why, of course I shan't!"

"That little romance runs smoothly so far; I hope it may to the
end," said Polly heartily as she watched the lad tramp away,
whistling as blithely as if his pleasurable emotions must find a
vent, or endanger the buttons on the round jacket; while the girl
pranced on her own doorstep, as if practising for the joyful dance
which she had promised not to forget.

A little farther on Polly passed a newly engaged couple whom she
knew, walking arm in arm for the first time, both wearing that
proud yet conscious look which is so delightful to behold upon the
countenances of these temporarily glorified beings.

"How happy they seem; oh, dear!" said Polly, and trudged on,
wondering if her turn would ever come and fearing that it was
impossible.

A glimpse of a motherly-looking lady entering a door, received by
a flock of pretty children, who cast themselves upon mamma and
her parcels with cries of rapture, did Polly good; and when, a
minute after she passed a gray old couple walking placidly
together in the sunshine, she felt better still, and was glad to see
such a happy ending to the romance she had read all down the
street.

As if the mischievous little god wished to take Polly at a
disadvantage, or perhaps to give her another chance, just at that
instant Mr. Sydney appeared at her side. How he got there was
never very clear to Polly, but there he was, flushed, and a little out
of breath, but looking so glad to see her that she had n't the heart to
be stiff and cool, as she had fully intended to be when they met.

"Very warm, is n't it?" he said when he had shaken hands and
fallen into step, just in the old way.

"You seem to find it so." And Polly laughed, with a sudden sparkle
in her eyes. She really could n't help it, it was so pleasant to see
him again, just when she was feeling so lonely.

"Have you given up teaching the Roths?" asked Sydney, changing
the subject.

"No."

"Do you go as usual?"

"Yes."

"Well, it 's a mystery to me how you get there."

"As much as it is to me how you got here so suddenly."

"I saw you from the Shaws' window and took the liberty of running
after you by the back street," he said, laughing.

"That is the way I get to the Roths," answered Polly. She did not
mean to tell, but his frankness was so agreeable she forgot herself.

"It 's not nearly so pleasant or so short for you as the park."

"I know it, but people sometimes get tired of old ways and like to
try new ones."

Polly did n't say that quite naturally, and Sydney gave her a quick
look, as he asked; "Do you get tired of old friends, too, Miss
Polly?"

"Not often; but " And there she stuck, for the fear of being
ungrateful or unkind made her almost hope that he would n't take
the hint which she had been carefully preparing for him.

There was a dreadful little pause, which Polly broke by saying
abruptly; "How is Fan?"

"Dashing, as ever. Do you know I 'm rather disappointed in Fanny,
for she don't seem to improve with her years," said Sydney, as if he
accepted the diversion and was glad of it.

"Ah, you never see her at her best. She puts on that dashing air
before people to hide her real self. But I know her better; and I
assure you that she does improve; she tries to mend her faults,
though she won't own it, and will surprise you some day, by the
amount of heart and sense and goodness she has got."

Polly spoke heartily now, and Sydney looked at her as if Fanny's
defender pleased him more than Fanny's defence.

"I 'm very glad to hear it, and willingly take your word for it.
Everybody shows you their good side, I think, and that is why you
find the world such a pleasant place."

"Oh, but I don't! It often seems like a very hard and dismal place,
and I croak over my trials like an ungrateful raven."

"Can't we make the trials lighter for you?"

The voice that put the question was so very kind, that Polly dared
not look up, because she knew what the eyes were silently saying.

"Thank you, no. I don't get more tribulation than is good for me, I
fancy, and we are apt to make mistakes when we try to dodge
troubles."

"Or people," added Sydney in a tone that made Polly color up to
her forehead.

"How lovely the park looks," she said, in great confusion.

"Yes, it 's the pleasantest walk we have; don't you think so?" asked
the artful young man, laying a trap, into which Polly immediately
fell.

"Yes, indeed! It 's always so refreshing to me to see a little bit of
the country, as it were, especially at this season."

Oh, Polly, Polly, what a stupid speech to make, when you had just
given him to understand that you were tired of the park! Not being
a fool or a cox-comb, Sydney put this and that together, and taking
various trifles into the account, he had by this time come to the
conclusion that Polly had heard the same bits of gossip that he had,
which linked their names together, that she did n't like it, and tried
to show she did n't in this way. He was quicker to take a hint than
she had expected, and being both proud and generous, resolved to
settle the matter at once, for Polly's sake as well as his own. So,
when she made her last brilliant remark, he said quietly, watching
her face keenly all the while; "I thought so; well, I 'm going out of
town on business for several weeks, so you can enjoy your 'little bit
of country' without being annoyed by me."

"Annoyed? Oh, no!" cried Polly earnestly; then stopped short, not
knowing what to say for herself. She thought she had a good deal
of the coquette in her, and I 've no doubt that with time and
training she would have become a very dangerous little person, but
now she was far too transparent and straightforward by nature even
to tell a white lie cleverly. Sydney knew this, and liked her for it,
but he took advantage of it, nevertheless by asking suddenly;
"Honestly, now, would n't you go the old way and enjoy it as much
as ever, if I was n't anywhere about to set the busybodies
gossiping?"

"Yes," said Polly, before she could stop herself, and then could
have bitten her tongue out for being so rude. Another awful pause
seemed impending, but just at that moment a horseman clattered
by with a smile and a salute, which caused Polly to exclaim, "Oh,
there 's Tom!" with a tone and a look that silenced the words
hovering on Sydney's lips, and caused him to hold out his hand
with a look which made Polly's heart flutter then and ache with
pity for a good while afterward, though he only said, "Good by,
Polly."

He was gone before she could do anything but look up at him with
a remorseful face, and she walked on, feeling that the first and
perhaps the only lover she would ever have, had read his answer
and accepted it in silence. She did not know what else he had read,
and comforted herself with the thought that he did not care for her
very much, since he took the first rebuff so quickly.

Polly did not return to her favorite walk till she learned from
Minnie that "Uncle" had really left town, and then she found that
his friendly company and conversation was what had made the
way so pleasant after all. She sighed over the perversity of things
in general, and croaked a little over her trials in particular, but on
the whole got over her loss better than she expected, for soon she
had other sorrows beside her own to comfort, and such work does
a body more good than floods of regretful tears, or hours of
sentimental lamentation.

She shunned Fanny for a day or two, but gained nothing by it, for
that young lady, hearing of Sydney's sudden departure, could not
rest till she discovered the cause of it, and walked in upon Polly
one afternoon just when the dusk made it a propitious hour for
tender confidences.

"What have you been doing with yourself lately?" asked Fanny,
composing herself, with her back toward the rapidly waning light.

"Wagging to and fro as usual. What's the news with you?"
answered Polly, feeling that something was coming and rather glad
to have it over and done with.

"Nothing particular. Trix treats Tom shamefully, and he bears it
like a lamb. I tell him to break his engagement, and not be worried
so; but he won't, because she has been jilted once and he thinks it
's such a mean thing to do."

"Perhaps she 'll jilt him."

"I 've no doubt she will, if anything better comes along. But Trix is
getting pass,e, and I should n't wonder if she kept him to his word,
just out of perversity, if nothing else."

"Poor Tom, what a fate!" said Polly with what was meant to be a
comical groan; but it sounded so tragical that she saw it would n't
pass, and hastened to hide the failure by saying, with a laugh, "If
you call Trix pass,e at twenty-three, what shall we all be at
twenty-five?" "Utterly done with, and laid upon the shelf. I feel so
already, for I don't get half the attention I used to have, and the
other night I heard Maud and Grace wondering why those old girls
'did n't stay at home, and give them a chance.' "

"How is Maudie?"

"Pretty well, but she worries me by her queer tastes and notions.
She loves to go into the kitchen and mess, she hates to study, and
said right before the Vincents that she should think it would be
great fun to be a beggar-girl, to go round with a basket, it must be
so interesting to see what you 'd get."

"Minnie said the other day she wished she was a pigeon so she
could paddle in the puddles and not fuss about rubbers."

"By the way, when is her uncle coming back?" asked Fanny, who
could n't wait any longer and joyfully seized the opening Polly
made for her.

"I 'm sure I don't know."

"Nor care, I suppose, you hard-hearted thing."

"Why, Fan, what do you mean?"

"I 'm not blind, my dear, neither is Tom, and when a young
gentleman cuts a call abruptly short, and races after a young lady,
and is seen holding her hand at the quietest corner of the park, and
then goes travelling all of a sudden, we know what it means if you
don't."

"Who got up that nice idea, I should like to know?" demanded
Polly, as Fanny stopped for breath.

"Now don't be affected, Polly, but just tell me, like a dear, has n't
he proposed?"

"No, he has n't."

"Don't you think he means to?"

"I don't think he 'll ever say a word to me."

"Well, I am surprised!" And Fanny drew a long breath, as if a load
was off her mind. Then she added in a changed tone: "But don't
you love him, Polly?"

"No."

"Truly?"

"Truly, Fan."

Neither spoke for a minute, but the heart of one of them beat
joyfully and the dusk hid a very happy face.

"Don't you think he cared for you, dear?" asked Fanny, presently. "I
don't mean to be prying, but I really thought he did."

"That 's not for me to say, but if it is so, it 's only a passing fancy
and he 'll soon get over it."

"Do tell me all about it; I 'm so interested, and I know something
has happened, I hear it in your voice, for I can't see your face."

"Do you remember the talk we once had after reading one of Miss
Edgeworth's stories about not letting one's lovers come to a
declaration if one did n't love them?"

"Yes."

"And you girls said it was n't proper, and I said it was honest,
anyway. Well, I always meant to try it if I got a chance, and I have.
Mind you, I don't say Mr. Sydney loved me, for he never said so,
and never will, now, but I did fancy he rather liked me and might
do more if I did n't show him that it was of no use."

"And you did?" cried Fanny, much excited.

"I just gave him a hint and he took it. He meant to go away before
that, so don't think his heart is broken, or mind what silly tattlers
say. I did n't like his meeting me so much and told him so by going
another way. He understood, and being a gentleman, made no fuss.
I dare say he thought I was a vain goose, and laughed at me for my
pains, like Churchill in 'Helen.' "

"No, he would n't; He 'd like it and respect you for doing it. But,
Polly, it would have been a grand thing for you."

"I can't sell myself for an establishment."

"Mercy! What an idea!"

"Well, that 's the plain English of half your fashionable matches. I
'm 'odd,' you know, and prefer to be an independent spinster and
teach music all my days."

"Ah, but you won't. You were made for a nice, happy home of your
own, and I hope you 'll get it, Polly, dear," said Fanny warmly,
feeling so grateful to Polly, that she found it hard not to pour out
all her secret at once.

"I hope I may; but I doubt it," answered Polly in a tone that made
Fanny wonder if she, too, knew what heartache meant.

"Something troubles you, Polly, what is it? Confide in me, as I do
in you," said Fanny tenderly, for all the coldness she had tried to
hide from Polly, had melted in the sudden sunshine that had come
to her.

"Do you always?" asked her friend, leaning forward with an
irresistible desire to win back the old-time love and confidence,
too precious to be exchanged for a little brief excitement or the
barren honor of "bagging a bird," to use Trix's elegant expression.
Fanny understood it then, and threw herself into Polly's arms,
crying, with a shower of grateful tears; "Oh, my dear! my dear!
did you do it for my sake?"

And Polly held her close, saying in that tender voice of hers, "I did
n't mean to let a lover part this pair of friends if I could help it."

CHAPTER XV BREAKERS AHEAD

GOING into the Shaws' one evening, Polly found Maud sitting on
the stairs, with a troubled face.

"Oh, Polly, I 'm so glad you 've come!" cried the little girl, running
to hug her.

"What's the matter, deary?"

"I don't know; something dreadful must have happened, for
mamma and Fan are crying together upstairs, papa is shut up in the
library, and Tom is raging round like a bear, in the dining-room."

"I guess it is n't anything very bad. Perhaps mamma is sicker than
usual, or papa worried about business, or Tom in some new scrape.
Don't look so frightened, Maudie, but come into the parlor and see
what I 've got for you," said Polly, feeling that there was trouble of
some sort in the air, but trying to cheer the child, for her little face
was full of a sorrowful anxiety, that went to Polly's heart.

"I don't think I can like anything till I know what the matter is,"
answered Maud. "It 's something horrid, I 'm sure, for when papa
came home, he went up to mamma's room, and talked ever so
long, and mamma cried very loud, and when I tried to go in, Fan
would n't let me, and she looked scared and strange. I wanted to go
to papa when he came down, but the door was locked, and he said,
'Not now, my little girl,' and then I sat here waiting to see what
would happen, and Tom came home. But when I ran to tell him, he
said, 'Go away, and don't bother,' and just took me by the shoulders
and put me out. Oh, dear! everything is so queer and horrid, I don't
know what to do."

Maud began to cry, and Polly sat down on the stairs beside her,
trying to comfort her, while her own thoughts were full of a vague
fear. All at once the dining-room door opened, and Tom's head
appeared. A single glance showed Polly that something was the
matter, for the care and elegance which usually marked his
appearance were entirely wanting. His tie was under one ear, his
hair in a toss, the cherished moustache had a neglected air, and his
face an expression both excited, ashamed, and distressed; even his
voice betrayed disturbance, for instead of the affable greeting he
usually bestowed upon the young lady, he seemed to have fallen
back into the bluff tone of his boyish days, and all he said was,
"Hullo, Polly."

"How do you do?" answered Polly.

"I 'm in a devil of a mess, thank you; send that chicken up stairs,
and come in and hear about it." he said, as if he had been longing
to tell some one, and welcomed prudent Polly as a special
providence.

"Go up, deary, and amuse yourself with this book, and these ginger
snaps that I made for you, there 's a good child," whispered Polly,
as Maud rubbed away her tears, and stared at Tom with round,
inquisitive eyes.

"You 'll tell me all about it, by and by, won't you?" she whispered,
preparing to obey.

"If I may," answered Polly.

Maud departed with unexpected docility, and Polly went into the
dining-room, where Tom was wandering about in a restless way. If
he had been "raging like a bear," Polly would n't have cared, she
was so pleased that he wanted her, and so glad to be a confidante,
as she used to be in the happy old days, that she would joyfully
have faced a much more formidable person than reckless Tom.

"Now, then, what is it?" she said, coming straight to the point.

"Guess."

"You 've killed your horse racing."

"Worse than that."

"You are suspended again."

"Worse than that."

"Trix has run away with somebody," cried Polly, with a gasp.

"Worse still."

"Oh, Tom, you have n't horse whipped or shot any one?"

"Came pretty near blowing my own brains out but you see I did
n't."

"I can't guess; tell me, quick."

"Well, I 'm expelled."

Tom paused on the rug as he gave the answer, and looked at Polly
to see how she took it. To his surprise she seemed almost relieved,
and after a minute silence, said, soberly, "That 's bad, very bad;
but it might have been worse."

"It is worse;" and Tom walked away again with a despairing sort of
groan.

"Don't knock the chairs about, but come and sit down, and tell me
quietly."

"Can't do it."

"Well, go on, then. Are you truly expelled? Can't it be made up?
What did you do?"

"It 's a true bill this time. I just had a row with the Chapel
watchman, and knocked him down. If it was a first offence, I
might have got off; but you see I 've had no end of narrow escapes,
and this was my last chance; I 've lost it, and now there 'll be the
dickens to pay. I knew it was all up with me, so I did n't wait to be
turned out, but just took myself off."

"What will your father say?"

"It will come hard on the governor, but the worst of it is " there
Tom stopped, and stood a minute in the middle of the room with
his head down, as if he did n't find it easy to tell even kind little
Polly. Then out came the truth all in a breath, just as he used to
bolt out his boyish misdemeanors, and then back up against the
wall ready to take the consequences.

"I owe an awful lot of money that the governor don't know about."

"Oh, Tom, how could you?"

"I 've been an extravagant rascal, I know it, and I 'm thundering
sorry, but that don't help a fellow, I 've got to tell the dear old
buffer, and there 's where it cuts."

At another time Polly would have laughed at the contrast between
Tom's face and his language, but there was a sincere remorse,
which made even the dreadful word "buffer" rather touching than
otherwise.

"He will be very angry, I dare say; but he 'll help you, won't he? He
always does, Fan says."

"That 's the worst of it, you see. He 's paid up so often, that the last
time he said his patience could n't stand it, nor his pocket either,
and if I got into any more scrapes of that sort, I must get out as I
could. I meant to be as steady as Bunker Hill Monument; but here I
am again, worse than ever, for last quarter I did n't say anything to
father, he was so bothered by the loss of those ships just then, so
things have mounted up confoundedly."

"What have you done with all your money?"

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