An Old-Fashioned Girl (31 page)

“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 didn’t mean to let a lover part this pair of friends, if I could help it.”

G
oing 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 isn’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 wouldn’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 upstairs, and come in and hear about it,” he said, as if he had been
longing to tell someone, 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 wouldn’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 haven’t horsewhipped or shot anyone?”

“Came pretty near blowing my own brains out, but you see I didn’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’s 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 didn’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 didn’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 couldn’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 didn’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?”

“Hanged if I know.”

“Can’t you pay it anyway?”

“Don’t see how, as I haven’t a cent of my own, and no way of getting it, unless I try gambling.”

“Oh, mercy, no! Sell your horse,” cried Polly, after a minute of deep meditation.

“I have; but he didn’t bring half I gave for him. I lamed him last winter, and the beggar won’t get over it.”

“And that didn’t pay up the debts?”

“Only about a half of ’em.”

“Why, Tom, how much do you owe?”

“I have dodged figuring it up till yesterday; then things were so desperate, I thought I might as well face the truth, so
I overhauled my accounts, and there’s the result.”

Tom threw a blotted, crumpled paper into Polly’s lap, and tramped up and down again, faster than ever. Polly took one look
at the total, and clasped her hands, for to her inexperienced eyes it looked appalling.

“Tidy little sum, isn’t it?” asked Tom, who couldn’t bear the silence, or the startled, grieved look in Polly’s eyes.

“It’s awful! I don’t wonder you dread telling your father.”

“I’d rather be shot. I say, Polly, suppose we break it to him easy!” added Tom, after another turn.

“How do you mean?”

“Why, suppose Fan, or, better still, you go and sort of pave the way. I can’t bear to come down on him with the whole truth
at once.”

“So you’d like to have me go and tell him for you?” Polly’s lip curled a little as she said that, and she gave Tom a look
that would have shown him how blue eyes can flash, if he had seen it. But he was at the window, and didn’t turn, as he said
slowly —

“Well, you see, he’s so fond of you; we all confide in you; and you are so like one of the family, that it seems quite natural.
Just tell him I’m expelled, you know, and as much more as you like; then I’ll come in, and we’ll have it out.”

Polly rose and went to the door without a word. In doing so, Tom caught a glimpse of her face, and said, hastily —

“Don’t you think it would be a good plan?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not? Don’t you think he’d rather have it told him nicely by you, than blurted out as I always do blurt things?”

“I
know
he’d rather have his son go to him and tell the truth, like a man, instead of sending a girl to do what he is afraid to do
himself.”

If Polly had suddenly boxed his ears, Tom couldn’t have looked more taken aback than by that burst. He looked at her excited
face, seemed to understand the meaning of it, and remembered all at once that he
was
trying to hide behind a girl. He turned scarlet, said shortly, “Come back, Polly,” and walked straight out of the room, looking
as if going to instant execution, for poor Tom had been taught to fear his father, and had not entirely outgrown the dread.

Polly sat down, looking both satisfied and troubled. “I hope I did right,” she said to herself. “I couldn’t bear to have him
shirk and seem cowardly. He isn’t, only he didn’t think how it seemed to me, and I don’t wonder he
was
a little afraid, Mr. Shaw is
so
severe with the poor fellow. Oh, dear, what should we do if Will got into such scrapes. Thank goodness, he’s poor, and can’t;
I’m so glad of that!”

Then she sat silent beside the half-open door, hearing the murmur of Tom’s voice across the hall, and hoping, with all her
heart, that he wouldn’t have a very hard time. He seemed to tell his story rapidly and steadily, without interruption, to
the end; then Polly heard Mr. Shaw’s deeper voice say a few words, at which Tom uttered a loud exclamation, as if taken by
surprise. Polly couldn’t distinguish a word, so she kept her seat, wondering anxiously what was going on between the two men.
A sudden pause seemed to follow Tom’s ejaculation, then Mr. Shaw talked a long time in a low, earnest tone, so different from
the angry one Polly had expected to hear, that it made her nervous, for Mr. Shaw usually “blew Tom up first, and forgave him
afterward,” as Maud said. Presently Tom’s voice was heard, apparently asking eager questions, to which brief replies were
given. Then a dead silence fell upon the room, and nothing was heard but the spring rain softly falling out of doors. All
of a sudden she heard a movement, and Tom’s voice say audibly —

“Let me bring Polly;” and he appeared, looking so pale and miserable that Polly was frightened.

“Go and say something to him; I can’t; poor old father, if I’d only known,” and to Polly’s utter dismay, Tom threw himself
into a chair, and laid his head down on the table, as if he had got a blow that was too much for him.

“Oh, Tom, what is it?” cried Polly, hurrying to him, full of fears she dared not speak.

Without looking up, Tom answered, in a smothered voice,

“Failed; all gone to smash; and tomorrow everyone will know it.”

Polly held on to the back of Tom’s chair, for a minute, for the news took her breath away, and she felt as if the world was
coming to an end, “failed” was such a vaguely dreadful word to her.

“Is it very bad?” she asked, softly, feeling as if anything was better than to stand still and see Tom so wretched.

“Yes; he means to give up everything. He’s done his best; but it can’t be staved off any longer, and it’s all up with him.”

“Oh, I wish I had a million to give him!” cried Polly, clasping her hands, with the tears running down her cheeks. “How does
he bear it, Tom?”

“Like a man, Polly; and I’m proud of him,” said Tom, looking up, all red and excited with the emotions he was trying to keep
under. “Everything has been against him, and he has fought all alone to stand the pressure, but it’s too much for him, and
he’s given in. It’s an honorable failure, mind you, and no one can say a word against him. I’d like to see ’em try it!” and
Tom clenched his hands, as if it would be an immense relief to him to thrash half a dozen aspersers of his father’s honest
name.

“Of course they can’t! This is what poor Maud was troubled about. He had told your mother and Fan before you came, and that
is why they are so unhappy, I suppose.”

“They are safe enough. Father hasn’t touched mother’s money; he ‘couldn’t rob his girls,’ he said, and that’s all safe for
’em. Isn’t he a trump, Polly?” And Tom’s face shone with pride, even while his lips would twitch with a tenderer feeling.

“If I could only do anything to help,” cried Polly, oppressed with her own powerlessness.

“You can. Go and be good to him; you know how; he needs it enough, all alone there. I can’t do it, for I’m only a curse instead
of a comfort to him.”

“How did he take
your
news?” asked Polly, who, for a time, had forgotten the lesser trouble in the greater.

“Like a lamb; for when I’d done, he only said, ‘My poor lad, we must bear with one another,’ and then told his story.”

“I’m glad he was kind,” began Polly, in a soothing tone; but Tom cried out, remorsefully —

“That’s what knocks me over! Just when I ought to be a pride and a prop to him, I bring him my debts and disgrace, and he
never says a word of blame. It’s no use, I can’t stand it!” and Tom’s head went down again with something very like a sob,
that would come in spite of manful efforts to keep it back, for the poor fellow had the warmest heart that ever was, and all
the fine waistcoats outside couldn’t spoil it.