An Old-Fashioned Girl (19 page)

She found Fanny enduring torment under the hands of the hairdresser, who was doing his best to spoil her hair, and distort
her head with a mass of curls, braids, frizzles, and puffs; for though I discreetly refrain from any particular description,
still, judging from the present fashions, I think one may venture to predict that six years hence they would be something
frightful.

“How kind of you, Polly; I was just wishing you were here to arrange my flowers. These lovely daphnes will give odor to my
camellias, and you were a dear to bring them. There’s my dress; how do you like it?” said Fanny, hardly daring to lift her
eyes from under the yellow tower on her head.

“It’s regularly splendid; but how do you ever get into it?” answered Polly, surveying with girlish interest the cloud of pink
and white lace that lay upon the bed.

“It’s fearfully and wonderfully made, but distractingly becoming, as you shall see. Trix thinks I’m going to wear blue, so
she has got a green one, and told Belle it would spoil the effect of mine, as we are much together, of course. Wasn’t that
sweet of her? Belle came and told me in time, and I just got pink, so my amiable sister, that is to be, won’t succeed in her
pretty little plot.”

“I guess she has been reading the life of Josephine. You know she made a pretty lady, of whom she was jealous, sit beside
her on a green sofa, which set off her own white dress and spoilt the blue one of her guest,” answered Polly, busy with the
flowers.

“Trix never reads anything; you are the one to pick up clever little stories. I’ll remember and use this one. Am I done? Yes,
that is charming, isn’t it, Polly?” and Fan rose to inspect the success of Monsieur’s long labor.

“You know I don’t appreciate a stylish coiffure as I ought, so I like your hair in the old way best. But this is ‘the thing,’
I suppose, and not a word must be said.”

“Of course it is. Why, child, I have frizzed and burnt my hair so that I look like an old maniac with it in its natural state,
and have to repair damages as well as I can. Now put the flowers just here,” and Fanny laid a pink camellia in a nest of fuzz,
and stuck a spray of daphne straight up at the back of her head.

“O, Fan, don’t, it looks horridly so!” cried Polly, longing to add a little beauty to her friend’s sallow face by a graceful
adjustment of the flowers.

“Can’t help it, that’s the way, and so it must be,” answered Fan, planting another sprig halfway up the tower.

Polly groaned, and offered no more suggestions as the work went on; but when Fan was finished from top to toe, she admired
all she honestly could, and tried to keep her thoughts to herself. But her frank face betrayed her, for Fanny turned on her
suddenly, saying —

“You may as well free your mind, Polly, for I see by your eyes that something don’t suit.”

“I was only thinking of what grandma once said, ‘that modesty had gone out of fashion,’” answered Polly, glancing at the waist
of her friend’s dress, which consisted of a belt, a bit of lace, and a pair of shoulder straps.

Fanny laughed good-naturedly, saying, as she clasped her necklace, “If I had such shoulders as yours, I shouldn’t care what
the fashion was. Now don’t preach, but put my cloak on nicely, and come along, for I’m to meet Tom and Trix, and promised
to be there early.”

Polly was to be left at home after depositing Fan at Belle’s.

“I feel as if I was going myself,” she said, as they rolled along.

“I wish you were, and you would be, Polly, if you weren’t such a resolute thing. I’ve teased, and begged, and offered anything
I have if you’ll only break your absurd vow, and come and enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you; but I won’t, so don’t trouble your kind heart about me; I’m all right,” said Polly, stoutly.

But when they drew up before the lighted house, and she found herself in the midst of the pleasant stir of festivity, the
coming and going of carriages, the glimpses of bright colors, forms, and faces, the bursts of music, and a general atmosphere
of gayety, Polly felt that she wasn’t all right, and as she drove away for a dull evening in her lonely little room, she just
cried as heartily as any child denied a stick of candy.

“It’s dreadful wicked of me, but I can’t help it,” she sobbed to herself, in the corner of the carriage. “That music sets
me all in a twitter, and I should have looked nice in Fan’s blue tarlatan, and I know I could behave as well as anyone, and
have lots of partners, though I’m not in that set. Oh, just one good gallop with Mr. Sydney or Tom! No, Tom wouldn’t ask me
there, and I wouldn’t accept if he did. Oh, me! Oh, me! I wish I was as old and homely, and good and happy, as Miss Mills!”

So Polly made her moan, and by the time she got home, was just in the mood to go to bed and cry herself to sleep, as girls
have a way of doing when their small affliction becomes unbearable.

But Polly didn’t get a chance to be miserable very long, for as she went upstairs feeling like the most injured girl in the
world, she caught a glimpse of Miss Mills, sewing away with such a bright face that she couldn’t resist stopping for a word
or two.

“Sit down, my dear, I’m glad to see you, but excuse me if I go on with my work, as I’m in a driving hurry to get these things
done tonight,” said the brisk little lady, with a smile and a nod, as she took a new needleful of thread, and ran up a seam
as if for a wager.

“Let me help you, then; I’m lazy and cross, and it will do me good,” said Polly, sitting down with the resigned feeling, “Well,
if I can’t be happy, I can be useful, perhaps.”

“Thank you, my dear; yes, you can just hem the skirt while I put in the sleeves, and that will be a great lift.”

Polly put on her thimble in silence, but as Miss Mills spread the white flannel over her lap, she exclaimed, “Why, it looks
like a shroud! Is it one?”

“No, dear, thank God, it isn’t, but it might have been, if we hadn’t saved the poor little soul,” cried Miss Mills, with a
sudden brightening of the face, which made it beautiful in spite of the stiff gray curl that bobbed on each temple, the want
of teeth, and a crooked nose.

“Will you tell me about it? I like to hear your adventures and good works so much,” said Polly, ready to be amused by anything
that made her forget herself.

“Ah, my dear, it’s a very common story, and that’s the saddest part of it. I’ll tell you all about it, for I think you may
be able to help me. Last night I watched with poor Mary Floyd. She’s dying of consumption, you know,” began Miss Mills, as
her nimble fingers flew, and her kind old face beamed over the work, as if she put a blessing in with every stitch. “Mary
was very low, but about midnight fell asleep, and I was trying to keep things quiet, when Mrs. Finn — she’s the woman of the
house — came and beckoned me out, with a scared face. ‘Little Jane has killed herself, and I don’t know what to do,’ she said,
leading me up to the attic.”

“Who was little Jane?” broke in Polly, dropping her work.

“I only knew her as a pale, shy young girl who went in and out, and seldom spoke to anyone. Mrs. Finn told me she was poor,
but a busy, honest, little thing, who didn’t mix with the other folks, but lived and worked alone. ‘She has looked so downhearted
and pale for a week, that I thought she was sick, and asked her about it,’ said Mrs. Finn, ‘but she thanked me in her bashful
way, and said she was pretty well, so I let her alone. But tonight, as I went up late to bed, I was kind of impressed to look
in and see how the poor thing did, for she hadn’t left her room all day. I did look in, and here’s what I found.’ As Mrs.
Finn ended, she opened the door of the back attic, and I saw about as sad a sight as these old eyes ever looked at.”

“O, what?” cried Polly, pale now with interest.

“A bare room, cold as a barn, and on the bed a little dead, white face that almost broke my heart, it was so thin, so patient,
and so young. On the table was a bottle half full of laudanum, an old pocketbook, and a letter. Read that, my dear, and don’t
think hard of little Jane.”

Polly took the bit of paper Miss Mills gave her, and read these words:

D
EAR
M
RS
. F
INN
— Please forgive me for the trouble I make you, but I don’t see any other way. I can’t get work that pays enough to keep
me; the Dr. says I can’t be well unless I rest. I hate to be a burden, so I’m going away not to trouble anybody any more.
I’ve sold my things to pay what I owe you. Please let me be as I am, and don’t let people come and look at me. I hope it isn’t
very wicked, but there don’t seem any room for me in the world, and I’m not afraid to die now, though I should be if I stayed
and got bad because I hadn’t strength to keep right. Give my love to the baby, and so good-by, good-by.

J
ANE
B
RYANT
.

“O, Miss Mills, how dreadful!” cried Polly, with her eyes so full she could hardly read the little letter.

“Not so dreadful as it might have been, but a bitter, sad thing to see that child, only seventeen, lying there in her little
clean, old nightgown, waiting for death to come and take her, because ‘there didn’t seem to be any room for her in the world.’
Ah, well, we saved her, for it wasn’t too late, thank heaven; and the first thing she said was, ‘Oh, why did you bring me
back?’ I’ve been nursing her all day, hearing her story, and trying to show her that there
is
room and a welcome for her. Her mother died a year ago, and since then she has been struggling along alone. She is one of
the timid, innocent, humble creatures who can’t push their way, and so get put aside and forgotten. She has tried all sorts
of poorly paid work, couldn’t live on it decently, got discouraged, sick, frightened, and could see no refuge from the big,
bad world but to get out of it while she wasn’t afraid to die. A very old story, my dear, new and dreadful as it seems to
you, and I think it won’t do you any harm to see and help this little girl, who has gone through dark places that you are
never like to know.”

“I will; indeed, I will do all I can! Where is she now?” asked Polly, touched to the heart by the story, so simple yet so
sad.

“There,” and Miss Mills pointed to the door of her own little bedroom. “She was well enough to be moved tonight, so I brought
her home and laid her safely in my bed. Poor little soul! She looked about her for a minute, then the lost look went away,
and she gave a great sigh, and took my hand in both her thin bits of ones, and said, ‘O, ma’am, I feel as if I’d been born
into a new world. Help me to begin again, and I’ll do better.’ So I told her she was my child now, and might rest here, sure
of a home as long as I had one.”

As Miss Mills spoke in her motherly tone, and cast a proud and happy look toward the warm and quiet nest in which she had
sheltered this friendless little sparrow, feeling sure that God meant her to keep it from falling to the ground, Polly put
both arms about her neck, and kissed her withered cheek with as much loving reverence as if she had been a splendid saint,
for in the likeness of this plain old maid she saw the lovely charity that blesses and saves the world.

“How good you are! Dear Miss Mills, tell me what to do, let me help you, I’m ready for anything,” said Polly, very humbly,
for her own troubles looked so small and foolish beside the stern hardships which had nearly had so tragical an end, that
she felt heartily ashamed of herself, and quite burned to atone for them.

Miss Mills stopped to stroke the fresh cheek opposite, to smile, and say —

“Then, Polly, I think I’ll ask you to go in and say a friendly word to my little girl. The sight of you will do her good;
and you have just the right way of comforting people, without making a fuss.”

“Have I?” said Polly, looking much gratified by the words.

“Yes, dear, you’ve the gift of sympathy, and the rare art of showing it without offending. I wouldn’t let many girls in to
see my poor Jenny, because they’d only flutter and worry her; but you’ll know what to do; so go, and take this wrapper with
you; it’s done now, thanks to your nimble fingers.”

Polly threw the warm garment over her arm, feeling a thrill of gratitude that it was to wrap a living girl in, and not to
hide away a young heart that had grown cold too soon. Pushing open the door, she went quietly into the dimly lighted room,
and on the pillow saw a face that drew her to it with an irresistible power, for it was touched by a solemn shadow that made
its youth pathetic. As she paused at the bedside, thinking the girl asleep, a pair of hollow, dark eyes opened wide, and looked
up at her; startled at first, then softening with pleasure, at sight of the bonny face before them, and then a humble, beseeching
expression filled them, as if asking pardon for the rash act nearly committed, and pity for the hard fate that prompted it.
Polly read the language of these eyes, and answered their mute prayer with a simple eloquence that said more than any words,
for she just stooped down and kissed the poor child, with her own eyes full, and lips that trembled with the sympathy she
could not tell. Jenny put both arms about her neck, and began to shed the quiet tears that so refresh and comfort heavy hearts
when a tender touch unseals the fountain where they lie.

“Everybody is
so
kind,” she sobbed, “and I was so wicked, I don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, yes, you do; don’t think of that, but rest and let us pet you. The old life was too hard for such a little thing as you,
and we are going to try and make the new one ever so much easier and happier,” said Polly, forgetting everything except that
this was a girl like herself, who needed heartening up.

“Do you live here?” asked Jenny, when her tears were wiped away, still clinging to the newfound friend.

“Yes, Miss Mills lets me have a little room upstairs, and there I have my cat and bird, my piano and my posy pots, and live
like a queen. You must come up and see me tomorrow if you are able. I’m often lonely, for there are no young people in the
house to play with me,” answered Polly, smiling hospitably.