An Old-Fashioned Girl (27 page)

“Don’t be a dog in the manger, Tom.”

“Bless your little heart, I only take a brotherly sort of interest in Polly. She’s a capital girl, and she ought to marry
a missionary, or one of your reformer fellows, and be a shining light of some sort. I don’t think setting up for a fine lady
would suit her.”

“I think it would, and I hope she’ll have the chance,” said Fanny, evidently making an effort to speak kindly.

“Good for you, Fan!” and Tom gave an emphatic nod, as if her words meant more than she suspected. “Mind you,” he added, “I
don’t know anything, and only fancied there might be some little flirtation going on. But I dare say it’s nothing.”

“Time will show.” Then Fan began to sing, and Tom’s horse came, so he departed with the very unusual demonstration of a gentle
pat on the head, as he said kindly —

“That’s right, my dear, keep jolly.” It wasn’t an elegant way of expressing sympathy, but it was hearty, and Fan thanked him
for it, though she only said —

“Don’t break your neck, Tommy.”

When he was gone, Fan’s song ended as suddenly as it began, and she sat thinking, with varying expressions of doubt and trouble
passing rapidly across her face.

“Well, I can’t do anything but wait!” she said, at last, slamming the music-book together with a desperate look. “Yes, I can,”
she added, a minute after, “it’s Polly’s holiday. I can go and see her, and if there is anything in it, I shall find it out.”

Fanny dropped her face into her hands, with a little shiver, as she said that; then got up, looking as pale and resolute as
if going to meet some dreadful doom, and putting on her things, went away to Polly’s as fast as her dignity would allow.

Saturday morning was Polly’s clearing-up day, and Fan found her with a handkerchief tied over her head, and a big apron on,
just putting the last touches to the tidy little room, which was as fresh and bright as water, air, and a pair of hands could
make it.

“All ready for company. I’ll just whisk off my regimentals, and Polly, the maid, becomes Polly, the missis. It was lovely
of you to come early; take off your things. Another new bonnet? You extravagant wretch! How is your mother and Maudie? It’s
a nice day, and we’ll have a walk, won’t we?”

By the time Polly’s welcome was uttered, she had got Fan on the little sofa beside her, and was smiling at her in such an
infectious manner, that Fan couldn’t help smiling back.

“I came to see what you have been doing with yourself lately. You don’t come and report, and I got anxious about you,” said
Fanny, looking into the clear eyes before her.

“I’ve been so busy; and I knew you wouldn’t care to hear about my doings, for they aren’t the sort you like,” answered Polly.

“Your lessons didn’t use to take up all your time. It’s my private opinion that you are taking as well as giving lessons,
miss,” said Fan, putting on a playfully stern air, to hide her real anxiety.

“Yes, I am,” answered Polly, soberly.

“In what? Love?”

A quick color came to Polly’s cheeks, as she laughed, and said, looking away —

“No; friendship and good works.”

“Oh, indeed! May I ask who is your teacher?”

“I’ve more than one; but Miss Mills is head teacher.”

“She instructs in good works; who gives the friendship lessons?”

“Such pleasant girls! I wish you knew them, Fan. So clever, and energetic, and kind, and happy, it always does me good to
see them,” cried Polly, with a face full of enthusiasm.

“Is that all?” And Fan gave her a curious look of mingled disappointment and relief.

“There, I told you my doings would not interest you, and they don’t; they sound flat and prosy after your brilliant adventures.
Let’s change the subject,” said Polly, looking relieved herself.

“Dear me, which of our sweethearts sends us dainty bouquets of violets so early in the morning?” asked Fanny, suddenly spying
the purple cluster in a graceful little vase on the piano.

“He sends me one every week; he knows I love them so,” and Polly’s eyes turned that way full of pride and pleasure.

“I’d no idea he was so devoted,” said Fanny, stooping to smell the flowers, and at the same time read a card that lay near
them.

“You needn’t plague me about it, now you know it. I never speak of our fondness for one another, because such things seem
silly to other people. Will isn’t all that Jimmy was to me; but he tries to be, and I love him dearly for it.”

“Will?” Fanny’s voice quite startled Polly, it was so sharp and sudden, and her face grew red and pale all in a minute, as
she upset the little vase with the start she gave.

“Yes, of course; who did you think I meant?” asked Polly, sopping up the water before it damaged her piano.

“Never mind; I thought you might be having a quiet little flirtation with somebody. I feel responsible, you know, because
I told your mother I’d look after you. The flowers are all right. My head aches so, I hardly know what I’m doing this morning.”

Fanny spoke fast, and laughed uncomfortably, as she went back to the sofa, wondering if Polly had told her a lie. Polly seemed
to guess at her thoughts as she saw the card, and turning toward her, she held it up, saying, with a conscious look in her
eyes —

“You thought Mr. Sydney sent them? Well, you are mistaken, and the next time you want to know anything, please ask straight
out. I like it better than talking at cross purposes.”

“Now, my dear, don’t be angry; I was only teasing you in fun. Tom took it into his foolish head that something was going on,
and I felt a natural interest, you know.”

“Tom! What does he know or care about my affairs?” demanded Polly.

“He met you two in the street pretty often, and being in a sentimental mood himself, got up a romance for you and Sydney.”

“I’m much obliged to him for his interest, but it’s quite wasted, thank you.”

Fan’s next proceeding gave her friend another surprise, for, being rather ashamed of herself, very much relieved, and quite
at a loss what to say, she took refuge in an hysterical fit of tears, which changed Polly’s anger into tenderness at once.

“Is that the trouble she has been hiding all winter? Poor dear, I wish I’d known it sooner,” thought Polly, as she tried to
soothe her with comfortable pats, sniffs of cologne, and sympathizing remarks upon the subject of headache, carefully ignoring
that other feminine affliction, the heartache.

“There, I feel better. I’ve been needing a good cry for some time, and now I shall be all right. Never mind it, Polly, I’m
nervous and tired; I’ve danced too much lately, and dyspepsia makes me blue;” and Fanny wiped her eyes and laughed.

“Of course it does; you need rest and petting, and here I’ve been scolding you, when I ought to have been extra kind. Now
tell me what I can do for you,” said Polly, with a remorseful face.

“Talk to me, and tell me all about yourself. You don’t seem to have as many worries as other people. What’s the secret, Polly?”
and Fan looked up with wet eyes, and a wistful face at Polly, who was putting little dabs of cologne all over her head.

“Well,” said Polly, slowly, “I just try to look on the bright side of things; that helps one amazingly. Why, you’ve no idea
how much goodness and sunshine you can get out of the most unpromising things, if you make the best of them.”

“I don’t know how,” said Fan, despondently.

“You can learn; I did. I used to croak and fret dreadfully, and get so unhappy, I wasn’t fit for anything. I do it still,
more than I ought, but I try not to, and it gets easier, I find. Get a-top of your troubles, and then they are half cured,
Miss Mills says.”

“Everything is so contrary and provoking,” said Fanny, petulantly.

“Now what in the world have you to fret about?” asked Polly, rather anxiously.

“Quantities of things,” began Fan, and then stopped, for somehow she felt ashamed to own that she was afflicted because she
couldn’t have a new set of furs, go to Paris in the spring, and make Mr. Sydney love her. She hunted up something more presentable,
and said in a despairing tone —

“Well, mother is very poorly, Tom and Trix quarrel all the time, Maud gets more and more wilful every day, and papa is worried
about his affairs.”

“A sad state of things, but nothing very desperate. Can’t you lend a hand anywhere? That might do good all round.”

“No; I haven’t the talent for managing people, but I see what ought to be done.”

“Well, don’t wail about it; keep
yourself
happy, if you can; it will help other people to see you cheerful.”

“Just what Tom said, ‘Keep jolly’; but, dear me, how can one, when everything is so stupid and tiresome?”

“If ever a girl needed work, it’s you!” cried Polly. “You began to be a young lady so early, that you are tired of everything
at twenty-two. I wish you’d go at something, then you’d find how much talent and energy you really had.”

“I know ever so many girls who are just like me, sick to death of fashionable life, but don’t know what to take in its place.
I’d like to travel; but papa says he can’t afford it, so I can only drag about and get on as I may.”

“I pity you rich girls so much, you have so many opportunities, and don’t seem to know how to use them. I suppose I should
do just the same in your place, but it seems now as if I could be very happy and useful with plenty of money.”

“You are that without it. There, I won’t croak any more. Let us go and take a good walk, and don’t you tell anyone how I came
and cried like a baby.”

“Never!” said Polly, putting on her bonnet.

“I ought to go and make calls,” said Fanny, “but I don’t feel now as if I ever wanted to see any of the girls again. Dreadful
state of mind, isn’t it?”

“Suppose you come and see some of my friends instead! They are not fine or ceremonious, but lively, odd, and pleasant. Come,
it will amuse you.”

“I will,” cried Fanny, whose spirits seemed improved by the shower. “Nice little old lady, isn’t she?” added Fan, as she caught
sight of Miss Mills, on their way out, sitting at a table piled with work, and sewing away with an energy that made the gray
curls vibrate.

#8220;Saint Mehitable, I call her. Now, there is a rich woman who knew how to get happiness out of her money,” said Polly,
as they walked away. “She was poor till she was nearly fifty; then a comfortable fortune was left her, and she knew just how
to use it. That house was given her, but instead of living in it all alone, she filled it with poor gentlefolks who needed
neat, respectable homes, but couldn’t get anything comfortable for their little money. I’m one of them, and I know the worth
of what she does for me. Two old widow ladies live below me, several students overhead, poor Mrs. Kean and her lame boy have
the back parlor, and Jenny the little bedroom next Miss Mills. Each pays what they can; that’s independent, and makes us feel
better: but that dear woman does a thousand things that money can’t pay for, and we feel her influence all through the house.
I’d
rather
be married, and have a home of my own; but next to that, I should like to be an old maid like Miss Mills.”

Polly’s sober face and emphatic tone made Fanny laugh, and at the cheery sound a young girl pushing a baby carriage looked
round and smiled.

“What lovely eyes!” whispered Fanny.

“Yes, that’s little Jenny,” returned Polly, adding, when she had passed, with a nod and a friendly “Don’t get tired, Jenny,”
“we help one another at our house, and every fine morning Jenny takes Johnny Kean out when she goes for her own walk. That
gives his mother time to rest, does both the children good, and keeps things neighborly. Miss Mills suggested it, and Jenny
is so glad to do anything for anybody, it’s a pleasure to let her.”

“I’ve heard of Miss Mills before. But I should think she would get tired to death, sitting there making hoods and petticoats
day after day,” said Fanny, after thinking over Jenny’s story for a few minutes, for seeing the girl seemed to bring it nearer,
and make it more real to her.

“But she don’t sit there all the time. People come to her with their troubles, and she goes to them with all sorts of help,
from soap and soup, to shrouds for the dead and comfort for the living. I go with her sometimes, and it is more exciting than
any play, to see and hear the lives and stories of the poor.”

“How can you bear the dreadful sights and sounds, the bad air, and the poverty that can’t be cured?”

“But it isn’t all dreadful. There are good and lovely things among them, if one only has eyes to see them. It makes me grateful
and contented, shows me how rich I am, and keeps me ready to do all I can for these poor souls.”

“My good Polly!” and Fanny gave her friend’s arm an affectionate squeeze, wondering if it was this alone that had worked the
change in Polly.

“You have seen two of my new friends, Miss Mills and Jenny, now I’ll show you two more,” said Polly, presently, as they reached
a door, and she led the way up several flights of public stairs. “Rebecca Jeffrey is a regularly splendid girl, full of talent;
she won’t let us call it genius; she will be famous someday, I know, she is so modest, and yet so intent on her work. Lizzie
Small is an engraver, and designs the most delightful little pictures. Becky and she live together, and take care of one another
in true Damon and Pythias style. This studio is their home — they work, eat, sleep, and live here, going halves in everything.
They are all alone in the world, but as happy and independent as birds; real friends, whom nothing will part.”

“Let a lover come between them, and their friendship won’t last long,” said Fanny.

“I think it will. Take a look at them, and you’ll change your mind,” answered Polly, tapping at a door, on which two modest
cards were tacked.

“Come in!” said a voice, and obeying, Fanny found herself in a large, queerly furnished room, lighted from above, and occupied
by two girls. One stood before a great clay figure, in a corner. This one was tall, with a strong face, keen eyes, short,
curly hair, and a fine head. Fanny was struck at once by this face and figure, though the one was not handsome, and the other
half hidden by a great pinafore covered with clay. At a table where the light was clearest, sat a frail-looking girl, with
a thin face, big eyes, and pale hair — a dreamy, absorbed little person, who bent over a block, skilfully wielding her tools.