An Old-Fashioned Girl (37 page)

“I beg pardon — couldn’t help it — grandma always let me on my birthday.”

While Polly took refuge upstairs, forgetting all about Fan, as she sat in the dark with her face hidden, wondering why she
wasn’t very angry, and resolving never again to indulge in the delightful but dangerous pastime of playing grandmother.

P
olly wrote enthusiastically, Ned answered satisfactorily, and after much corresponding, talking, and planning, it was decided
that Tom should go West. Never mind what the business was; it suffices to say that it was a good beginning for a young man
like Tom, who, having been born and bred in the most conservative class of the most conceited city in New England, needed
just the healthy, hearty, social influences of the West to widen his views and make a man of him.

Of course there was much lamentation among the women, but everyone felt it was the best thing for him; so, while they sighed,
they sewed, packed visions of a brilliant future away with his new pocket handkerchiefs, and rejoiced that the way was open
before him even in the act of bedewing his boots with tears. Sydney stood by him to the last, “like a man and a brother” (which
expression of Tom’s gave Fanny infinite satisfaction), and Will felt entirely consoled for Ned’s disappointment at his refusal
to go and join him, since Tom was to take the place Ned had kept for him.

Fortunately everyone was so busy with the necessary preparations that there was no time for romance of any sort, and the four
young people worked together as soberly and sensibly as if all sorts of emotions were not bottled up in their respective hearts.
But in spite of the silence, the work, and the hurry, I think they came to know one another better in that busy little space
of time than in all the years that had gone before, for the best and bravest in each was up and stirring, and the small house
was as full of the magnetism of love and friendship, self-sacrifice and enthusiasm, as the world outside was full of spring
sunshine and enchantment. Pity that the end should come so soon; but the hour did its work and went its way, leaving a clearer
atmosphere behind, though the young folks did not see it then, for their eyes were dim because of the partings that must be.

Tom was off to the West; Polly went home for the summer; Maud was taken to the seaside with Belle; and Fanny left alone to
wrestle with housekeeping, “help,” and heartache. If it had not been for two things, I fear she never would have stood a summer
in town; but Sydney often called, till his vacation came, and a voluminous correspondence with Polly beguiled the long days.
Tom wrote once a week to his mother, but the letters were short and not very satisfactory, for men never do tell the interesting
little things that women best like to hear. Fanny forwarded her bits of news to Polly; Polly sent back all the extracts from
Ned’s letters concerning Tom, and by putting the two reports together, they gained the comfortable assurance that Tom was
well, in good spirits, hard at work, and intent on coming out strong in spite of all obstacles.

Polly had a quiet summer at home, resting and getting ready in mind and body for another winter’s work, for in the autumn
she tried her plan again, to the satisfaction of her pupils, and the great joy of her friends. She never said much of herself
in her letters, and Fanny’s first exclamation when they met again, was an anxious —

“Why, Polly, dear! Have you been sick, and never told me?”

“No, I’m only tired; had a good deal to do lately, and the dull weather makes me just a trifle blue. I shall soon brighten
up when I get to my work again,” answered Polly, bustling about to put away her things.

“You don’t look a bit natural; what have you been doing to your precious little self?” persisted Fanny, troubled by the change,
yet finding it hard to say wherein it lay.

Polly did not look sick, though her cheeks were thinner and her color paler than formerly, but she seemed spiritless, and
there was a tired look in her eyes, that went to Fanny’s heart.

“I’m all right enough, as you’ll see when I’m in order. I’m proper glad to find
you
looking so well and happy. Does all go smoothly, Fan?” asked Polly, beginning to brush her hair industriously.

“Answer me one question first,” said Fanny, looking as if a sudden fear had come over her. “Tell me, truly, have you never
repented of your hint to Sydney?”

“Never!” cried Polly, throwing back the brown veil behind which she had half hidden her face at first.

“On your honor, as an honest girl?”

“On my honor, as anything you please. Why do you suspect me of it?” demanded Polly, almost angrily.

“Because something is wrong with you. It’s no use to deny it, for you’ve got the look I used to see in that very glass on
my own face when I thought he cared for you. Forgive me, Polly, but I can’t help saying it, for it
is
there, and I want to be as true to you as you were to me, if I can.”

Fanny’s face was full of agitation, and she spoke fast and frankly, for she was trying to be generous, and found it very hard.
Polly understood now, and put her fear at rest by saying, almost passionately —

“I tell you I
don’t
love him! If he was the only man in the world, I wouldn’t marry him, because I — don’t want to.”

The last three words were added in a different tone, for Polly had checked herself there with a half-frightened look, and
turned away to hide her face behind her hair again.

“Then if it’s not him, it’s someone else. You’ve got a secret, Polly, and I should think you might tell it, as you know mine,”
said Fanny, unable to rest till everything was told, for Polly’s manner troubled her.

There was no answer to her question, but she was satisfied, and putting her arm round her friend, she said, in her most persuasive
tone —

“My precious Polly, do I know him?”

“You have seen him.”

“And is he very wise, good, and splendid, dear?”

“No.”

“He ought to be if you love him. I hope he isn’t bad?” cried Fan, anxiously, still holding Polly, who kept her head obstinately
turned.

“I’m suited, that’s enough.”

“Oh, please just tell me one thing more; don’t he love back again?”

“No. Now don’t say another word; I can’t bear it!” and Polly drew herself away, as she spoke in a desperate sort of tone.

“I won’t; but now I’m not afraid to tell you that I think, I hope, I do believe that Sydney cares a little for me. He’s been
very kind to us all, and lately he has seemed to like to see me always when he comes, and miss me if I’m gone. I didn’t dare
to hope anything, till papa observed something in his manner, and teased me about it. I try not to deceive myself, but it
does seem as if there was a chance of happiness for me.”

“Thank heaven for that!” cried Polly, with the heartiest satisfaction in her voice. “Now come and tell me all about it,” she
added, sitting down on the couch with the air of one who has escaped a great peril.

“I’ve got some notes and things I want to ask your opinion about, if they really mean anything, you know,” said Fanny, getting
out a bundle of papers from the inmost recesses of her desk. “There’s a photograph of Tom, came in his last letter; good,
isn’t it? He looks older, but that’s the beard and the rough coat, I suppose. Dear old fellow, he is doing so well, I really
begin to feel quite proud of him.”

Fan tossed her the photograph, and went on rummaging for a certain note. She did not see Polly catch up the picture and look
at it with hungry eyes, but she did hear something in the low tone in which Polly said —

“It don’t do him justice,” and glancing over her shoulder Fan’s quick eye caught a glimpse of the truth, though Polly was
half turned away from her. Without stopping to think, Fan dropped her letters, took Polly by the shoulders, and cried in a
tone full of astonishment —

“Polly, is it Tom?”

Poor Polly was so taken by surprise, that she had not a word to say. None were needed; her telltale face answered for her,
as well as the impulse which made her hide her head in the sofa cushion, like a foolish ostrich when the hunters are after
it.

“Oh, Polly, I
am
so glad! I never thought of it — you are so good, and he’s such a wild boy — I can’t believe it — but it
is
so dear of you to care for him.”

“Couldn’t help it — tried not to — but it was so hard — you know, Fan, you know,” said a stifled voice from the depths of
the very fuzzy cushion which Tom had once condemned.

The last words, and the appealing hand outstretched to her, told Fanny the secret of her friend’s tender sympathy for her
own love troubles, and seemed so pathetic, that she took Polly in her arms, and cried over her, in the fond, foolish way girls
have of doing when their hearts are full, and tears can say more than tongues. The silence never lasts long, however, for
the feminine desire to “talk it over” usually gets the better of the deepest emotion. So presently the girls were hard at
it, Polly very humble and downcast, Fanny excited, and overflowing with curiosity and delight.

“Really my sister! You dear thing, how heavenly that will be,” she cried.

“It never will be,” answered Polly, in a tone of calm despair.

“What will prevent it?”

“Maria Bailey,” was the tragic reply.

“What do you mean? Is she the Western girl? She shan’t have Tom; I’ll kill her first!”

“Too late, let me tell you — is that door shut, and Maud safe?”

Fanny reconnoitred, and returning listened breathlessly, while Polly poured into her ear the bitter secret which was preying
on her soul.

“Hasn’t he mentioned Maria in his letters?”

“Once or twice, but sort of jokingly, and I thought it was only some little flirtation. He can’t have time for much of that
fun, he’s so busy.”

“Ned writes good, gossipy letters — I taught him how — and he tells me all that’s going on. When he’d spoken of this girl
several times (they board with her mother, you know), I asked about her, quite carelessly, and he told me she was pretty,
good, and well educated, and he thought Tom was rather smitten. That was a blow; for you see, Fan, since Trix broke the engagement,
and it wasn’t wrong to think of Tom, I let myself hope, just a little, and was so happy! Now I must give it up, and now I
see how much I hoped, and what a dreadful loss it’s going to be.”

Two great tears rolled down Polly’s cheeks, and Fanny wiped them away, feeling an intense desire to go West by the next train,
wither Maria Bailey with a single look, and bring Tom back as a gift to Polly.

“It was so stupid of me not to guess before. But you see Tom always seems so like a boy, and you are more womanly for your
age than any girl I know, so I never thought of your caring for him in that way. I knew you were very good to him, you are
to everyone, my precious; and I knew that he was fond of you as he is of me, fonder if anything, because he thinks you are
perfect; but still I never dreamed of his loving you more than a dear friend.”

“He doesn’t,” sighed Polly.

“Well, he ought; and if I could get hold of him, he should!”

Polly clutched Fan at that, and held her tight, saying, sternly —

“If you ever breathe a word, drop a hint, look a look that will tell him or anyone else about me, I’ll — yes, as sure as my
name is Mary Milton — I’ll proclaim from the housetops that you like Ar —.” Polly got no further, for Fan’s hand was on her
mouth, and Fan’s alarmed voice vehemently protested —

“I won’t! I promise solemnly I’ll never say a word to a mortal creature. Don’t be so fierce, Polly; you quite frighten me.”

“It’s bad enough to love someone who don’t love you, but to have them told of it is perfectly awful. It makes me wild just
to think of it. Oh, Fan, I’m getting so ill-tempered and envious and wicked, I don’t know what will happen to me.”

“I’m not afraid for you, my dear, and I do believe things will go right, because you are so good to everyone. How Tom could
help adoring you I don’t see. I know he would if he had stayed at home longer after he got rid of Trix. It would be the making
of him; but though he is my brother, I don’t think he’s good enough for you, Polly, and I don’t quite see how you can care
for him so much, when you might have had a person so infinitely superior.”

“I don’t want a ‘superior’ person; he’d tire me if he was like A. S. Besides, I do think Tom
is
superior to him in many things. Well, you needn’t stare; I
know
he is, or will be. He’s so different, and very young, and has lots of faults, I know, but I like him all the better for it,
and he’s honest and brave, and has got a big, warm heart, and I’d rather have him care for me than the wisest, best, most
accomplished man in the world, simply because I love him!”

If Tom could only have seen Polly’s face when she said that! It was so tender, earnest, and defiant, that Fanny forgot the
defence of her own lover, in admiration of Polly’s loyalty to hers; for this faithful, all-absorbing love was a new revelation
to Fanny, who was used to hearing her friends boast of two or three lovers a year, and calculate their respective values,
with almost as much coolness as the young men discussed the fortunes of the girls they wished, but “could not afford to marry.”
She had thought her love for Sydney very romantic, because she did not really care whether he was rich or poor, though she
never dared to say so, even to Polly, for fear of being laughed at. She began to see now what true love was, and to feel that
the sentiment which she could not conquer was a treasure to be accepted with reverence, and cherished with devotion.

“I don’t know when I began to love Tom, but I found out that I did last winter, and was as much surprised as you are,” continued
Polly, as if glad to unburden her heart. “I didn’t approve of him at all; I thought he was extravagant, reckless, and dandified.
I was very much disappointed when he chose Trix, and the more I thought and saw of it, the worse I felt, for Tom was too good
for her, and I hated to see her do so little for him, when she might have done so much; because he is one of the men who can
be led by their affections, and the woman he marries can make or mar him.”