An Old-Fashioned Girl (38 page)

“That’s true!” cried Fan, as Polly paused to look at the picture, which appeared to regard her with a grave, steady look,
which seemed rather to belie her assertions.

“I don’t mean that he’s weak or bad. If he was, I should hate him; but he does need someone to love him very much, and make
him happy, as a good woman best knows how,” said Polly, as if answering the mute language of Tom’s face. “I hope Maria Bailey
is all he thinks her,” she added, softly, “for I couldn’t bear to have him disappointed again.”

“I dare say he don’t care a fig for her, and you are only borrowing trouble. What do you say Ned answered when you asked about
this inconvenient girl?” said Fanny, turning hopeful all at once.

Polly repeated it, and added, “I asked him in another letter if he didn’t admire Miss B. as much as Tom, and he wrote back
that she was ‘a nice girl, but he had no time for nonsense, and I needn’t get my white kids ready for some years yet, unless
to dance at Tom’s wedding.’ Since then he hasn’t mentioned Maria, so I was sure there was something serious going on, and
being in Tom’s confidence, he kept quiet.”

“It does look bad. Suppose
I
say a word to Tom, just inquire after his heart in a general way, you know, and give him a chance to tell me, if there is
anything to tell.”

“I’m willing; but you must let me see the letter. I can’t trust you not to hint or say too much.”

“You shall. I’ll keep my promise in spite of everything, but it will be hard to see things going wrong when a word would set
it right.”

“You know what will happen if you do,” and Polly looked so threatening that Fan trembled before her, discovering that the
gentlest girls when roused are more impressive than any shrew; for even turtledoves peck gallantly to defend their nests.

“If it
is
true about Maria, what
shall
we do?” said Fanny, after a pause.

“Bear it; people always do bear things, somehow,” answered Polly, looking as if sentence had been passed upon her.

“But if it isn’t?” cried Fan, unable to endure the sight.

“Then I shall wait.” And Polly’s face changed so beautifully that Fan hugged her on the spot, fervently wishing that Maria
Bailey never had been born.

Then the conversation turned to lover number two, and after a long confabulation, Polly gave it as her firm belief that A.
S. had forgotten M. M., and was rapidly finding consolation in the regard of F. S. With this satisfactory decision the council
ended, after the ratification of a Loyal League, by which the friends pledged themselves to stand stanchly by one another,
through the trials of the coming year.

It was a very different winter from the last for both the girls. Fanny applied herself to her duties with redoubled ardor,
for “A. S.” was a domestic man, and admired house-wifely accomplishments. If Fanny wanted to show him what she could do toward
making a pleasant home, she certainly succeeded better than she suspected, for in spite of many failures and discouragements
behind the scenes, the little house became a most attractive place, to Mr. Sydney at least, for he was more the house-friend
than ever, and seemed determined to prove that change of fortune made no difference to him.

Fanny had been afraid that Polly’s return might endanger her hopes, but Sydney met Polly with the old friendliness, and very
soon convinced her that the nipping in the bud process had been effectual, for being taken early, the sprouting affection
had died easy, and left room for an older friendship to blossom into a happier love.

Fanny seemed glad of this, and Polly soon set her heart at rest by proving that she had no wish to try her power. She kept
much at home when the day’s work was done, finding it pleasanter to sit dreaming over book or sewing alone, than to exert
herself even to go to the Shaws’.

“Fan don’t need me, and Sydney don’t care whether I come or not, so I’ll keep out of the way,” she would say, as if to excuse
her seeming indolence.

Polly was not at all like herself that winter, and those nearest to her saw and wondered at it most. Will got very anxious,
she was so quiet, pale, and spiritless, and distracted poor Polly by his affectionate stupidity, till she completed his bewilderment
by getting cross and scolding him. So he consoled himself with Maud, who, now being in her teens, assumed dignified airs,
and ordered him about in a style that afforded him continued amusement and employment.

Western news continued vague, for Fan’s general inquiries produced only provokingly unsatisfactory replies from Tom, who sang
the praises of “the beautiful Miss Bailey,” and professed to be consumed by a hopeless passion for somebody, in such half-comic,
half-tragic terms, that the girls could not decide whether it was “all that boy’s mischief,” or only a cloak to hide the dreadful
truth.

“We’ll have it out of him, when he comes home in the spring,” said Fanny to Polly, as they compared the letters of their brothers,
and agreed that “men were the most uncommunicative and provoking animals under the sun.” For Ned was so absorbed in business
that he ignored the whole Bailey question, and left them in utter darkness.

Hunger of any sort is a hard thing to bear, especially when the sufferer has a youthful appetite, and Polly was kept on such
a short allowance of happiness for six months, that she got quite thin and interesting; and often, when she saw how big her
eyes were getting, and how plainly the veins on her temples showed, indulged the pensive thought that perhaps spring dandelions
might blossom o’er her grave. She had no intention of dying till Tom’s visit was over, however, and as the time drew near,
she went through such alternations of hope and fear, and lived in such a state of feverish excitement, that spirits and color
came back, and she saw that the interesting pallor she had counted on would be an entire failure.

May came at last, and with it a burst of sunshine which cheered even poor Polly’s much-enduring heart. Fanny came walking
in upon her one day, looking as if she brought tidings of such great joy that she hardly knew how to tell them.

“Prepare yourself — somebody is engaged!” she said, in a solemn tone, that made Polly put up her hand as if to ward off an
expected blow. “No, don’t look like that, my poor dear; it isn’t Tom, it’s — I!”

Of course there was a rapture, followed by one of the deliciously confidential talks which bosom friends enjoy, interspersed
with tears and kisses, smiles and sighs.

“Oh, Polly, though I’ve waited and hoped so long I couldn’t believe it when it came, and don’t deserve it; but I will! For
the knowledge that he loves me seems to make everything possible,” said Fanny, with an expression which made her really beautiful,
for the first time in her life.

“You happy girl!” sighed Polly, then smiled and added, “I think you deserve all that’s come to you, for you have truly tried
to be worthy of it, and whether it ever came or not that would have been a thing to be proud of.”

“He says that is what made him love me,” answered Fanny, never calling her lover by his name, but making the little personal
pronoun a very sweet word by the tone in which she uttered it. “He was disappointed in me last year, he told me, but you said
good things about me, and though he didn’t care much then, yet, when he lost you, and came back to me, he found that you were
not altogether mistaken, and he has watched me all this winter, learning to respect and love me better every day. Oh, Polly,
when he said that, I couldn’t bear it, because in spite of all my trying, I’m still so weak and poor and silly.”

“We don’t think so; and I know you’ll be all he hopes to find you, for he’s just the husband you ought to have.”

“Thank you all the more, then, for not keeping him yourself,” said Fanny, laughing the old blithe laugh again.

“That was only a slight aberration of his; he knew better all the time. It was your white cloak and my idiotic behavior the
night we went to the opera that put the idea into his head,” said Polly, feeling as if the events of that evening had happened
some twenty years ago, when she was a giddy young thing, fond of gay bonnets and girlish pranks.

“I’m not going to tell Tom a word about it, but keep it for a surprise till he comes. He will be here next week, and then
we’ll have a grand clearing up of mysteries,” said Fan, evidently feeling that the millennium was at hand.

“Perhaps,” said Polly, as her heart fluttered and then sunk, for this was a case where she could do nothing but hope, and
keep her hands busy with Will’s new set of shirts.

There is a good deal more of this sort of silent suffering than the world suspects, for the “women who dare” are few, the
women who “stand and wait” are many. But if work-baskets were gifted with powers of speech, they could tell stories more true
and tender than any we read. For women often sew the tragedy or comedy of life into their work as they sit apparently safe
and serene at home, yet are thinking deeply, living whole heart-histories, and praying fervent prayers while they embroider
pretty trifles or do the weekly mending.

“Come, Philander, let us be a marching,

Every one his true love a searching,”

W
ould be the most appropriate motto for this chapter, because, intimidated by the threats, denunciations, and complaints showered
upon me in consequence of taking the liberty to end a certain story as I liked, I now yield to the amiable desire of giving
satisfaction, and, at the risk of outraging all the unities, intend to pair off everybody I can lay my hands on.

Occasionally a matrimonial epidemic appears, especially toward spring, devastating society, thinning the ranks of bachelordom,
and leaving mothers lamenting for their fairest daughters. That spring the disease broke out with great violence in the Shaw
circle, causing paternal heads much bewilderment, as one case after another appeared with alarming rapidity. Fanny, as we
have seen, was stricken first, and hardly had she been carried safely through the crisis, when Tom returned to swell the list
of victims. As Fanny was out a good deal with her Arthur, who was sure that exercise was necessary for the convalescent, Polly
went every day to see Mrs. Shaw, who found herself lonely, though much better than usual, for the engagement had a finer effect
upon her constitution than any tonic she ever tried. Some three days after Fan’s joyful call Polly was startled on entering
the Shaws’ door, by Maud, who came tumbling downstairs, sending an avalanche of words before her —

“He’s come before he said he should to surprise us! He’s up in mamma’s room, and was just saying, ‘How’s Polly?’ when I heard
you come, in your creep-mouse way, and you must go right up. He looks so funny with whiskers, but he’s ever so nice, real
big and brown, and he swung me right up when he kissed me. Never mind your bonnet, I can’t wait.”

And pouncing upon Polly, Maud dragged her away like a captured ship towed by a noisy little steam-tug.

“The sooner it’s over the better for me,” was the only thought Polly had time for before she plunged into the room above,
propelled by Maud, who cried triumphantly —

“There he is! Ain’t he splendid?”

For a minute, everything danced before Polly’s eyes, as a hand shook hers warmly, and a gruffish voice said heartily —

“How are you, Polly?” Then she slipped into a chair beside Mrs. Shaw, hoping that her reply had been all right and proper,
for she had not the least idea what she said.

Things got steady again directly, and while Maud expatiated on the great surprise, Polly ventured to look at Tom, feeling
glad that her back was toward the light, and his was not. It was not a large room, and Tom seemed to fill it entirely; not
that he had grown so very much, except broader in the shoulders, but there was a brisk, genial, free-and-easy air about him,
suggestive of a stirring, out-of-door life, with people who kept their eyes wide open, and were not very particular what they
did with their arms and legs. The rough-and-ready travelling suit, stout boots, brown face, and manly beard, changed him so
much, that Polly could find scarcely a trace of elegant Tom Shaw in the hearty-looking young man who stood with one foot on
a chair, while he talked business to his father in a sensible way, which delighted the old gentleman. Polly liked the change
immensely, and sat listening to the state of Western trade with as much interest as if it had been the most thrilling romance,
for, as he talked, Tom kept looking at her with a nod or a smile so like old times, that for a little while she forgot Maria
Bailey, and was in bliss.

By and by Fanny came flying in, and gave Tom a greater surprise than his had been. He had not the least suspicion of what
had been going on at home, for Fan had said to herself, with girlish malice, “If he don’t choose to tell me his secrets, I’m
not going to tell mine,” and had said nothing about Sydney, except an occasional allusion to his being often there, and very
kind. Therefore, when she announced her engagement, Tom looked so staggered for a minute, that Fan thought he didn’t like
it; but after the first surprise passed, he showed such an affectionate satisfaction, that she was both touched and flattered.

“What do you think of this performance?” asked Tom, wheeling round to Polly, who still sat by Mrs. Shaw, in the shadow of
the bed-curtains.

“I like it very much,” she said, in such a hearty tone, that Tom could not doubt the genuineness of her pleasure.

“Glad of that. Hope you’ll be as well pleased with another engagement that’s coming out before long”; and with an odd laugh,
Tom carried Sydney off to his den, leaving the girls to telegraph to one another the awful message —

“It
is
Maria Bailey.”

How she managed to get through that evening, Polly never knew, yet it was not a long one, for at eight o’clock she slipped
out of the room, meaning to run home alone, and not compel anyone to serve as escort. But she did not succeed, for as she
stood warming her rubbers at the dining room fire, wondering pensively as she did so if Maria Bailey had small feet, and if
Tom ever put her rubbers on for her, the little overshoes were taken out of her hands, and Tom’s voice said, reproachfully
—