An Old-Fashioned Girl (13 page)

“We young folks quite lost our heads that night, and I haven’t a very clear idea of how I got home. The last thing I remember
was hanging out of the window with a flock of girls, watching the carriage roll away, while the crowd cheered as if they were
mad.

“Bless my heart, it seems as if I heard em now! ‘Hurrah for Lafayette and Mayor Quincy! Hurrah for Madam Hancock and the pretty
girls! Hurrah for Col. May!’ ‘Three cheers for Boston! Now, then! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’”

And here the old lady stopped, out of breath, with her cap askew, her spectacles on the end of her nose, and her knitting
much the worse for being waved enthusiastically in the air, while she hung over the arm of her chair, shrilly cheering an
imaginary Lafayette.

The girls clapped their hands, and Tom hurrahed with all his might, saying, when he got his breath,

“Lafayette was a regular old trump; I always liked him.”

“My dear! What a disrespectful way to speak of that great man,” said grandma, shocked at Young America’s irreverence.

“Well, he
was
a trump, anyway, so why not call him one?” asked Tom, feeling that the objectionable word was all that could be desired.

“What queer gloves you wore then,” interrupted Fanny, who had been trying on the much-honored glove, and finding it a tight
fit.

“Much better and cheaper than we have now,” returned grandma, ready to defend “the good old times” against every insinuation.
“You are an extravagant set nowadays, and I really don’t know what you are coming to. By the way, I’ve got somewhere two letters
written by two young ladies, one in 1517, and the other in 1868. The contrast between the two will amuse you, I think.”

After a little search, grandma produced an old portfolio, and selecting the papers, read the following letter, written by
Anne Boleyn before her marriage to Henry VIII, and now in the possession of a celebrated antiquarian:

D
EAR
M
ARY
— I have been in town almost a month, yet I cannot say I have found anything in London extremely agreeable. We rise so late
in the morning — seldom before six o’clock — and sit up so late at night — being scarcely in bed before ten — that I am quite
sick of it; and was it not for the abundance of fine things I am every day getting, I should be impatient of returning into
the country.

My indulgent mother bought me, yesterday, at a merchant’s in Cheapside, three new shifts, that cost fourteen pence an ell,
and I am to have a pair of new stuff shoes, for my Lord of Norfolk’s ball, which will be three shillings.

The irregular life I have led since my coming to this place has quite destroyed my appetite. You know I could manage a pound
of bacon and a tankard of good ale for my breakfast, in the country, but in London I find it difficult to get through half
the quantity, though I must own I am generally eager enough for the dinner hour, which is here delayed till twelve, in your
polite society.

I played at hot cockles, last night, at my Lord of Leicester’s. The Lord of Surrey was there, a very elegant young man, who
sung a song of his own composition, on the “Lord of Kildare’s Daughter.” It was much approved, and my brother whispered me
that the fair Geraldine, for so my Lord of Surrey calls his sweetheart, is the finest woman of the age. I should be glad to
see her, for I hear she is good as she is beautiful.

Pray take care of the poultry during my absence. Poor things! I always fed them myself; and if Margery has knitted me the
crimson worsted mittens, I should be glad if they were sent up the first opportunity.

Adieu, dear Mary. I am just going to mass, and you shall speedily have the prayers, as you have now the kindest love of your
own.

A
NNE
B
OLEYN
.

“Up before six, and think it late to go to bed at ten! What a countrified thing Anne must have been. Bacon and ale for breakfast,
and dinner at twelve, how very queer to live so!” cried Fanny. “Lord Surrey and Lord Leicester sound fine, but hot cockles
and red mittens, and shoes for three shillings, are horrid.”

“I like it,” said Polly, thoughtfully, “and I’m glad poor Anne had a little fun before her troubles began. May I copy that
letter sometime, grandma?”

“Yes, dear, and welcome. Now, here’s the other, by a modern girl on her first visit to London. This will suit you better,
Fan,” and grandma read what a friend had sent her as a pendant to Anne’s little picture of London life long ago:

M
Y
D
EAREST
C
ONSTANCE
— After three months of intense excitement I snatch a leisure moment to tell you how much I enjoy my first visit to London.
Having been educated abroad, it really seems like coming to a strange city. At first the smoke, dirt and noise were very disagreeable,
but I soon got used to these things, and now find all I see perfectly charming.

We plunged at once into a whirl of gayety, and I have had no time to think of anything but pleasure. It is the height of the
season, and every hour is engaged either in going to balls, concerts, theatres, fêtes and church, or in preparing for them.
We often go to two or three parties in an evening, and seldom get home till morning, so of course we don’t rise till noon
next day. This leaves very little time for our drives, shopping, and calls before dinner at eight, and then the evening gayeties
begin again.

At a ball at Lady Russell’s last night, I saw the Prince of Wales, and danced in the set with him. He is growing stout, and
looks dissipated. I was disappointed in him, for neither in appearance nor conversation was he at all princely. I was introduced
to a very brilliant and delightful young gentleman from America. I was charmed with him, and rather surprised to learn that
he wrote the poems which were so much admired last season, also that he is the son of a rich tailor. How odd these Americans
are, with their money, and talent, and independence!

O my dear, I must not forget to tell you the great event of my first season. I am to be presented at the next Drawing Room!
Think how absorbed I must be in preparation for this grand affair. Mamma is resolved that I shall do her credit, and we have
spent the last two weeks driving about from milliners to mantua-makers, from merchants to jewellers. I am to wear white satin
and plumes, pearls and roses. My dress will cost a hundred pounds or more, and is very elegant.

My cousins and friends lavish lovely things upon me, and you will open your unsophisticated eyes when I display my silks and
laces, trinkets and French hats, not to mention
billet doux,
photographs, and other relics of a young belle’s first season.

You ask if I ever think of home. I really haven’t time, but I do sometimes long a little for the quiet, the pure air and the
girlish amusements I used to enjoy so much. One gets pale, and old, and sadly fagged out, with all this dissipation, pleasant
as it is. I feel quite
blasé
already.

If you could send me the rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and gay spirits I always had at home, I’d thank you. As you cannot do that,
please send me a bottle of June rain water, for my maid tells me it is better than any cosmetic for the complexion, and mine
is getting ruined by late hours.

I fancy some fruit off our own trees would suit me, for I have no appetite, and mamma is quite
desolée
about me. One cannot live on French cookery without dyspepsia, and one can get nothing simple here, for food, like everything
else, is regulated by the fashion.

Adieu,
ma chère,
I must dress for church. I only wish you could see my new hat and go with me, for Lord Rockingham promised to be there.

Adieu, yours eternally,

F
LORENCE
.

“Yes, I do like that better, and I wish I had been in this girl’s place, don’t you, Polly?” said Fan, as grandma took off
her glasses.

“I should love to go to London, and have a good time, but I don’t think I should care about spending ever so much money, or
going to Court. Maybe I might when I got there, for I
do
like fun and splendor,” added honest Polly, feeling that pleasure was a very tempting thing.

“Grandma looks tired; let’s go and play in the dwying-woom,” said Maud, who found the conversation getting beyond her depth.

“Let us all kiss and thank grandma, for amusing us so nicely, before we go,” whispered Polly. Maud and Fanny agreed, and grandma
looked so gratified by their thanks, that Tom followed suit, merely waiting till “those girls” were out of sight, to give
the old lady a hearty hug, and a kiss on the very cheek Lafayette had saluted.

When he reached the playroom Polly was sitting in the swing, saying, very earnestly, “I always told you it was nice up in
grandma’s room, and now you see it is. I wish you’d go oftener; she admires to have you, and likes to tell stories and do
pleasant things, only she thinks you don’t care for her quiet sort of fun.
I
do, anyway, and
I
think she’s the kindest, best old lady that ever lived, and I love her dearly!”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t, only old people are sort of tedious and fussy, so I keep out of their way,” said Fanny.

“Well, you ought not to, and you miss lots of pleasant times. My mother says we ought to be kind and patient and respectful
to all old folks just because they
are
old, and I always mean to be.”

“Your mother’s everlastingly preaching,” muttered Fan, nettled by the consciousness of her own shortcomings with regard to
grandma.

“She don’t preach!” cried Polly, firing up like a flash; “she only explains things to us, and helps us be good, and never
scolds, and I’d rather have her than any other mother in the world, though she don’t wear velvet cloaks and splendid bonnets
— so now!”

“Go it, Polly!” called Tom, who was gracefully hanging head downward from the bar put up for his special benefit.

“Polly’s mad! Polly’s mad!” sung Maud, skipping rope round the room.

“If Mr. Sydney could see you now he wouldn’t think you such an angel any more,” added Fanny, tossing a beanbag and her head
at the same time.

Polly
was
mad, her face was very red, her eyes very bright and her lips twitched, but she held her tongue and began to swing as hard
as she could, fearing to say something she would be sorry for afterward. For a few minutes no one spoke, Tom whistled and
Maud hummed, but Fan and Polly were each soberly thinking of something, for they had reached an age when children, girls especially,
begin to observe, contrast, and speculate upon the words, acts, manners, and looks of those about them. A good deal of thinking
goes on in the heads of these shrewd little folks, and the elders should mind their ways, for they get criticised pretty sharply
and imitated very closely.

Two little things had happened that day, and the influence of a few words, a careless action, was still working in the active
minds of the girls.

Mr. Sydney had called, and while Fanny was talking with him she saw his eye rest on Polly, who sat apart watching the faces
round her with the modest, intelligent look which many found so attractive. At that minute Madam Shaw came in, and stopped
to speak to the little girl. Polly rose at once, and remained standing till the old lady passed on.

“Are you laughing at Polly’s prim ways?” Fanny had asked, as she saw Mr. Sydney smile.

“No, I am admiring Miss Polly’s fine manners,” he answered in a grave, respectful tone, which had impressed Fanny very much,
for Mr. Sydney was considered by all the girls as a model of good breeding, and that indescribable something which they called
“elegance.”

Fanny wished
she
had done that little thing, and won that approving look, for she valued the young man’s good opinion, because it was so hard
to win, by her set at least. So, when Polly talked about old people, it recalled this scene and made Fan cross.

Polly was remembering how, when Mrs. Shaw came home that day in her fine visiting costume, and Maud ran to welcome her with
unusual affection, she gathered up her lustrous silk and pushed the little girl away saying, impatiently, “Don’t touch me,
child, your hands are dirty.” Then the thought had come to Polly that the velvet cloak didn’t cover a right motherly heart,
that the fretful face under the nodding purple plumes was not a tender motherly face, and that the hands in the delicate primrose
gloves had put away something very sweet and precious. She thought of another woman, whose dress never was too fine for little
wet cheeks to lie against, or loving little arms to press; whose face, in spite of many lines and the gray hairs above it,
was never sour or unsympathetic when children’s eyes turned towards it; and whose hands never were too busy, too full or too
nice to welcome and serve the little sons and daughters who freely brought their small hopes and fears, sins and sorrows,
to her, who dealt out justice and mercy with such wise love. “Ah, that’s a mother!” thought Polly, as the memory came warm
into her heart, making her feel very rich, and pity Maud for being so poor.

This it was that caused such sudden indignation at Fanny’s dreadful speech, and this it was that made quick-tempered Polly
try to calm her wrath before she used toward Fanny’s mother the disrespectful tone she so resented toward her own. As the
swing came down after some dozen quick journeys to and fro, Polly seemed to have found a smile somewhere up aloft, for she
looked toward Fan, saying pleasantly, as she paused a little in her airy exercise, “I’m not mad now, shall I come and toss
with you?”

“No, I’ll come and swing with you,” answered Fanny, quick to feel the generous spirit of her friend. “You
are
an angel, and I’ll never be so rude again,” she added, as Polly’s arm came round her, and half the seat was gladly offered.

“No, I ain’t; but if I ever get at all like one, it will be ‘mother’s preaching’ that did it,” said Polly, with a happy laugh.

“Good for you, Polly Peacemaker,” cried Tom, quoting his father, and giving them a grand push as the most appropriate way
of expressing his approbation of the sentiment.