An Old-Fashioned Girl (21 page)

“Then there isn’t any ‘Sparking Sunday night’?” sung Tom, who appeared to have waked up again.

“Of course not. Polly isn’t going to marry anybody; she’s going to keep house for Will when he’s a minister, I heard her say
so,” cried Maud, with importance.

“What a fate for pretty Polly!” ejaculated Tom.

“She likes it, and I’m sure I should think she would; it’s beautiful to hear ’em plan it all out.”

“Any more gossip to retail, Pug?” asked Tom a minute after, as Maud seemed absorbed in visions of the future.

“He told a funny story about blowing up one of the professors. You never told us, so I suppose you didn’t know it. Some bad
fellow put a torpedo, or some sort of powder thing, under the chair, and it went off in the midst of the lesson, and the poor
man flew up, frightened most to pieces, and the boys ran with pails of water to put the fire out. But the thing that made
Will laugh most was, that the very fellow who did it got his trousers burnt trying to put out the fire, and he asked the —
is it Faculty or President?”

“Either will do,” murmured Tom, who was shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Well, he asked ’em to give him some new ones, and they did give him money enough for a nice pair; but he got some cheap ones,
with horrid great stripes on ’em, and always wore ’em to that particular class, ‘which was one too many for the fellows,’
Will said, and with the rest of the money he had a punch party. Wasn’t it dreadful?”

“Awful!” And Tom exploded into a great laugh, that made Fanny cover her ears, and the little dog bark wildly.

“Did you know that bad boy?” asked innocent Maud.

“Slightly,” gasped Tom, in whose wardrobe at college those identical trousers were hanging at that moment.

“Don’t make such a noise, my head aches dreadfully,” said Fanny, fretfully.

“Girls’ heads always do ache,” answered Tom, subsiding from a roar into a chuckle.

“What pleasure you boys can find in such ungentlemanly things, I don’t see,” said Fanny, who was evidently out of sorts.

“As much a mystery to you as it is to us, how you girls can like to gabble and prink from one week’s end to the other,” retorted
Tom.

There was a pause after this little passage-at-arms, but Fan wanted to be amused, for time hung heavily on her hands, so she
asked, in a more amiable tone,

“How’s Trix?”

“As sweet as ever,” answered Tom, gruffly.

“Did she scold you, as usual?”

“She just did.”

“What was the matter?”

“Well, I’ll leave it to you if this isn’t unreasonable: she won’t dance with me herself, yet don’t like me to go it with anybody
else. I said, I thought, if a fellow took a girl to a party, she ought to dance with him once, at least, especially if they
were engaged. She said that was the very reason why she shouldn’t do it; so, at the last hop, I let her alone, and had a gay
time with Belle, and today Trix gave it to me hot and heavy, coming home from church.”

“If you go and engage yourself to a girl like that, I don’t know what you can expect. Did she wear her Paris hat today?” added
Fan, with sudden interest in her voice.

“She wore some sort of a blue thing, with a confounded bird of Paradise in it, that kept whisking into my face every time
she turned her head.”

“Men never know a pretty thing when they see it. That hat is perfectly lovely.”

“They know a lady when they see her, and Trix don’t look like one; I can’t say where the trouble is, but there’s too much
fuss and feathers for my taste. You are twice as stylish, yet you never look loud or fast.”

Touched by this unusual compliment, Fanny drew her chair nearer as she replied with complacency —

“Yes, I flatter myself I do know how to dress well. Trix never did; she’s fond of gay colors, and generally looks like a walking
rainbow.”

“Can’t you give her a hint? Tell her not to wear blue gloves anyway, she knows I hate ’em.”

“I’ve done my best for your sake, Tom, but she is a perverse creature, and don’t mind a word I say, even about things much
more objectionable than blue gloves.”

“Maudie, run and bring me my other cigar case, it’s lying round somewhere.”

Maud went; and as soon as the door was shut, Tom rose on his elbow, saying in a cautiously lowered voice,

“Fan, does Trix paint?”

“Yes, and draws too,” answered Fanny, with a sly laugh.

“Come, you know what I mean; I’ve a right to ask and you ought to tell,” said Tom, soberly, for he was beginning to find that
being engaged was not unmitigated bliss.

“What makes you think she does?”

“Well, between ourselves,” said Tom, looking a little sheepish, but anxious to set his mind at rest, “she never will let me
kiss her on her cheek, nothing but an unsatisfactory peck at her lips. Then the other day, as I took a bit of heliotrope out
of a vase to put in my buttonhole, I whisked a drop of water into her face; I was going to wipe it off, but she pushed my
hand away, and ran to the glass, where she carefully dabbed it dry, and came back with one cheek redder than the other. I
didn’t say anything, but I had my suspicions. Come now, does she?”

“Yes, she does; but don’t say a word to her, for she’ll never forgive my telling if she knew it.”

“I don’t care for that; I don’t like it, and I won’t have it,” said Tom, decidedly.

“You can’t help yourself. Half the girls do it, either paint or powder, darken their lashes with burnt hairpins, or take cologne
on lumps of sugar or belladonna to make their eyes bright. Clara tried arsenic for her complexion, but her mother stopped
it,” said Fanny, betraying the secrets of the prison-house in the basest manner.

“I knew you girls were a set of humbugs, and very pretty ones, too, some of you, but I can’t say I like to see you painted
up like a lot of actresses,” said Tom, with an air of disgust.

“
I
don’t do anything of the sort, or need it, but Trix does; and having chosen her, you must abide your choice, for better or
worse.”

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” muttered Tom, as he lay down again with a rebellious air.

Maud’s return put an end to these confidences, though Tom excited her curiosity by asking the mysterious question, “I say,
Fan, is Polly up to that sort of thing?”

“No, she thinks it’s awful. When she gets pale and dragged out she will probably change her mind.”

“I doubt it,” said Tom.

“Polly says it isn’t proper to talk secrets before people who ain’t in ’em,” observed Maud, with dignity.

“Do, for mercy sake, stop talking about Polly, I’m sick to death of it,” cried Fanny, snappishly.

“Hullo!” and Tom sat up to take a survey. “I thought you were bosom friends, and as spoony as ever.”

“Well, I am fond of Polly, but I get tired of hearing Maud sing her praises everlastingly. Now don’t go and repeat that, chatterbox.”

“My goodness, isn’t she cross?” whispered Maud to Tom.

“As two sticks; let her be. There’s the bell; see who it is, Pug,” answered Tom, as a tingle broke the silence of the house.

Maud went to peep over the banisters, and came flying back in a rapture.

“It’s Will come for me! Can’t I go? It don’t snow hard, and I’ll bundle up, and you can send for me when papa comes.”

“I don’t care what you do,” answered Fan, who was in a very bad temper.

Without waiting for any other permission, Maud rushed away to get ready. Will wouldn’t come up, he was so snowy, and Fanny
was glad, because with her he was bashful, awkward, and silent, so Tom went down and entertained him with Maud’s report. They
were very good friends, but led entirely different lives, Will being a “dig,” and Tom a “bird,” or, in plain English, one
was a hard student, and the other a jolly young gentleman. Tom had rather patronized Will, who didn’t like it, and showed
that he didn’t by refusing to borrow money of him, or accept any of his invitations to join the clubs and societies to which
Tom belonged. So Shaw let Milton alone, and he got on very well in his own way, doggedly sticking to his books, and resisting
all temptations but those of certain libraries, athletic games, and such inexpensive pleasures as were within his means; for
this benighted youth had not yet discovered that college nowadays is a place in which to “skylark,” not to study.

When Maud came down and trotted contentedly away, holding Will’s hand, Tom watched them out of sight, and then strolled about
the house whistling and thinking, till he went to sleep in his father’s armchair, for want of something better to do. He awoke
to the joys of a solitary tea, for his mother never came down, and Fanny shut herself and her headache up in her own room.

“Well, this is cheerful,” he said, as the clock struck eight, and his fourth cigar came to an end. “Trix is mad, and Fan in
the dumps, so I’ll take myself off. Guess I’ll go round to Polly’s, and ask Will to drive out with me, and save him the walk,
poor chap. Might bring Midget home, it will please her, and there’s no knowing when the governor will be back.”

With these thoughts in his head, Tom leisurely got under way, and left his horse at a neighboring stable, for he meant to
make a little call, and see what it was Maud enjoyed so much.

“Polly is holding forth,” he said to himself, as he went quietly upstairs, and the steady murmur of a pleasant voice came
down to him. Tom laughed at Polly’s earnest way of talking when she was interested in anything. But he liked it because it
was so different from the coquettish clatter of most of the girls with whom he talked. Young men often laugh at the sensible
girls whom they secretly respect, and affect to admire the silly ones whom they secretly despise, because earnestness, intelligence,
and womanly dignity are not the fashion.

The door was ajar, and pausing in the dark entry, Tom took a survey before he went in. The prospect was not dazzling, but
homelike and pleasant. The light of a bright fire filled the little room, and down on a stool before it was Maud tending Puttel,
and watching with deep interest the roasting of an apple intended for her special benefit. On the couch lounged Will, his
thoughtful eyes fixed on Polly, who, while she talked, smoothed the broad forehead of her “yellow-haired laddie” in a way
that Tom thought an immense improvement on Maud’s performance. They had evidently been building castles in the air, for Polly
was saying in her most impressive manner,

“Well, whatever you do, Will, don’t have a great, costly church that takes so much money to build and support it that you
have nothing to give away. I like the plain, old-fashioned churches, built for use, not show, where people met for hearty
praying and preaching, and where everybody made their own music instead of listening to opera singers, as we do now. I don’t
care if the old churches were bare and cold, and the seats hard, there was real piety in them, and the sincerity of it was
felt in the lives of the people. I don’t want a religion that I put away with my Sunday clothes, and don’t take out till the
day comes round again; I want something to see and feel and live by day by day, and I hope you’ll be one of the true ministers,
who can teach by precept and example, how to get and keep it.”

“I hope I shall be, Polly, but you know they say that in families, if there is a boy who can’t do anything else, they make
a minister of him. I sometimes think I ain’t good for much, and that seems to me the reason why I shouldn’t even try to be
a minister,” said Will, smiling, yet looking as if with all his humility he did have faith in the aspirations that came to
him in his best moments.

“Someone said that very thing to father once, and I remember he answered, ‘I am glad to give my best and brightest son to
the service of God.’”

“Did he say that?” and Will’s color rose, for the big, book-loving fellow was as sensitive as a girl to the praise of those
dearest to him.

“Yes,” said Polly, unconsciously giving the strongest stimulus to her brother’s hope and courage. “Yes, and he added, ‘I shall
let my boys follow the guide that is in them, and only ask of them to use their gifts conscientiously, and be honest, useful
men.’”

“So we will! Ned is doing well out West, and I’m hard at it here. If father does his best to give us the chance we each want,
the least we can do is to work with a will.”

“Whatever you do, you can’t help working with a Will,” cried Tom, who had been so interested, that he forgot he was playing
eavesdropper.

Polly flew up, looking so pleased and surprised, that Tom reproached himself for not having called oftener.

“I’ve come for Maud,” he announced, in a paternal tone, which made that young lady open her eyes.

“I can’t go till my apple is done; besides, it isn’t nine yet, and Will is going to take me along, when he goes. I’d rather
have him.”

“I’m going to take you both in the cutter. The storm is over, but it is heavy walking, so you’ll drive out with me, old man?”
said Tom, with a nod at Will.

“Of course he will; and thank you very much. I’ve been trying to keep him all night; Miss Mills always manages to find a corner
for stray people, but he insists on going, so as to get to work early tomorrow,” said Polly, delighted to see that Tom was
taking off his coat, as if he meant to wait for Maud’s apple, which Polly blessed for being so slow to cook.

Putting her guest into the best chair, Polly sat down and beamed at him with such hospitable satisfaction, that Tom went up
several pegs in his own estimation.

“You don’t come very often, so we are rather overpowered when you do honor us,” she said, demurely.

“Well, you know we fellows are so busy, we haven’t much time to enjoy ourselves,” answered Tom.

“Ahem!” said Will, loudly.

“Take a troche,” said Tom.

Then they both burst out laughing, and Polly, fully understanding the joke, joined them, saying —

“Here are some peanuts, Tom; do enjoy yourself while you can.”

“Now I call that a delicate compliment!” And Tom, who had not lost his early relish for this sort of refreshment, though he
seldom indulged his passion nowadays, because peanuts are considered vulgar, fell to cracking and munching with great satisfaction.