“I want to be ever so much better, and I think you and they might show me how,” said Fanny, with a traitorous tremble in her voice.
“We'll show you the sunny side of poverty and work, and that is a useful lesson for any one, Miss Mills says,” answered Polly, hoping that Fan would learn how much the poor can teach the rich, and what helpful friends girls may be to one another.
ON the evening of Fan's visit, Polly sat down before her fire with a resolute and thoughtful aspect. She pulled her hair down, turned her skirt back, put her feet on the fender, and took Puttel into her lap, all of which arrangements signified that something very important had got to be thought over and settled. Polly did not soliloquize aloud, as heroines on the stage and in books have a way of doing, but the conversation she held with herself was very much like this: “I'm afraid there is something in it. I've tried to think it's nothing but vanity or imagination, yet I can't help seeing a difference, and feeling as if I ought not to pretend that I don't. I know it's considered proper for girls to shut their eyes and let things come to a crisis no matter how much mischief is done. But I don't think it's doing as we'd be done by, and it seems a great deal more honest to show a man that you don't love him before he has entirely lost his heart. The girls laughed at me when I said so, and they declared that it would be a very improper thing to do, but I've observed that they don't hesitate to snub'ineligible parties,' as they call poor, very young, or unpopular men. It's all right then, but when a nice person comes it's part of the fun to let him go on to the very end, whether the girls care for him or not. The more proposals, the more credit. Fan says Trix always asks when she comes home after the summer excursions, 'How many birds have you bagged?' as if men were partridges. What wicked creatures we are! some of us at least. I wonder why such a love of conquest was put into us? Mother says a great deal of it is owing to bad education nowadays, but some girls seem born for the express purpose of making trouble and would manage to do it if they lived in a howling wilderness. I'm afraid I've got a spice of it, and if I had the chance, should be as bad as any of them. I've tried it and liked it, and maybe this is the consequence of that night's fun.”
Here Polly leaned back and looked up at the little mirror over the chimney-piece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of telltale eyes looking out from a tangle of bright brown hair, cheeks that flushed and dimpled suddenly as the fresh mouth smiled with an expression of conscious power, half proud, half ashamed, and as pretty to see as the coquettish gesture with which she smoothed back her curls and flourished a white hand. For a minute she regarded the pleasant picture while visions of girlish romances and triumphs danced through her head, then she shook her hair all over her face and pushed her chair out of range of the mirror, saying, with a droll mixture of self-reproach and self-approval in her tone; “Oh, Puttel, Puttel, what a fool I am!”
Puss appeared to endorse the sentiment by a loud purr and a graceful wave of her tail, and Polly returned to the subject from which these little vanities had beguiled her.
“Just suppose it is true, that he does ask me, and I say yes! What a stir it would make, and what fun it would be to see the faces of the girls when it came out! They all think a great deal of him because he is so hard to please, and almost any of them would feel immensely flattered if he liked them, whether they chose to marry him or not. Trix has tried for years to fascinate him, and he can't bear her, and I'm so glad! What a spiteful thing I am. Well, I can't help it, she does aggravate me so!” And Polly gave the cat such a tweak of the ear that Puttel bounced out of her lap in high dudgeon.
“It don't do to think of her, and I won't!” said Polly to herself, setting her lips with a grim look that was not at all becoming. “What an easy life I should have plenty of money, quantities of friends, all sorts of pleasures, and no work, no poverty, no cold shoulders or patched boots. I could do so much for all at home how I should enjoy that!” And Polly let her thoughts revel in the luxurious future her fancy painted. It was a very bright picture, but something seemed amiss with it, for presently she sighed and shook her head, thinking sorrowfully, “Ah, but I don't love him, and I'm afraid I never can as I ought! He's very good, and generous, and wise, and would be kind, I know, but somehow I can't imagine spending my life with him; I'm so afraid I should get tired of him, and then what should I do? Polly Sydney don't sound well, and Mrs. Arthur Sydney don't seem to fit me a bit. Wonder how it would seem to call him 'Arthur'?” And Polly said it under her breath, with a look over her shoulder to be sure no one heard it. “It's a pretty name, but rather too fine, and I should n't dare to say 'Syd,' as his sister does. I like short, plain, home-like names, such as Will, Ned, or Tom. No, no, I can never care for him, and it's no use to try!” The exclamation broke from Polly as if a sudden trouble had seized her, and laying her head down on her knees, she sat motionless for many minutes.
When she looked up, her face wore an expression which no one had ever seen on it before; a look of mingled pain and patience, as if some loss had come to her, and left the bitterness of regret behind.
“I won't think of myself, or try to mend one mistake by making another,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I'll do what I can for Fan, and not stand between her and a chance of happiness. Let me see, how can I begin? I won't walk with him any more; I'll dodge and go roundabout ways, so that we can't meet. I never had much faith in the remarkable coincidence of his always happening home to dinner just as I go to give the Roths their lesson. The fact is, I like to meet him, I am glad to be seen with him, and put on airs, I dare say, like a vain goose as I am. Well, I won't do it any more, and that will spare Fan one affliction. Poor dear, how I must have worried her all this time, and never guessed it. She has n't been quite as kind as ever; but when she got sharp, I fancied it was dyspepsia. Oh, me! I wish the other trouble could be cured as easily as this.”
Here puss showed an amiable desire to forgive and forget, and Polly took her up, saying aloud: “Puttel, when missis abuses you, play it's dyspepsia, and don't bear malice, because it's a very trying disease, my dear.”
Then, going back to her thoughts, she rambled on again; “If he does n't take that hint, I will give him a stronger one, for I will not have matters come to a crisis, though I can't deny that my wicked vanity strongly tempts me to try and'bag a bird' just for the excitement and credit of the thing. Polly, I'm ashamed of you! What would your blessed mother say to hear such expressions from you? I'd write and tell her all the worry, only it would n't do any good, and would only trouble her. I 've no right to tell Fan's secrets, and I'm ashamed to tell mine. No, I 'll leave mother in peace, and fight it out alone. I do think Fan would suit him excellently by and by. He has known her all her life, and has a good influence over her. Love would do so much toward making her what she might be; it's a shame to have the chance lost just because he happens to see me. I should think she'd hate me; but I'll show her that she need n't, and do all I can to help her; for she has been so good to me nothing shall ever make me forget that. It is a delicate and dangerous task, but I guess I can manage it; at any rate I'll try, and have nothing to reproach myself with if things do go'contrary.'”
What Polly thought of, as she lay back in her chair, with her eyes shut, and a hopeless look on her face, is none of our business, though we might feel a wish to know what caused a tear to gather slowly from time to time under her lashes, and roll down on Puttel's Quaker-colored coat. Was it regret for the conquest she relinquished, was it sympathy for her friend, or was it an uncontrollable overflow of feeling as she read some sad or tender passage of the little romance which she kept hidden away in her own heart?
On Monday, Polly began the “delicate and dangerous task.” Instead of going to her pupils by way of the park and the pleasant streets adjoining, she took a roundabout route through back streets, and thus escaped Mr. Sydney, who, as usual, came home to dinner very early that day and looked disappointed because he nowhere saw the bright face in the modest bonnet. Polly kept this up for a week, and by carefully avoiding the Shaws' house during calling hours, she saw nothing of Mr. Sydney, who, of course, did n't visit her at Miss Mills'. Minnie happened to be poorly that week and took no lesson, so Uncle Syd was deprived of his last hope, and looked as if his allowance of sunshine had been suddenly cut off.
Now, as Polly was by no means a perfect creature, I am free to confess that the old temptation assailed her more than once that week, for, when the first excitement of the dodging reform had subsided, she missed the pleasant little interviews that used to put a certain flavor of romance into her dull, hard-working days. She liked Mr. Sydney very much, for he had always been kind and friendly since the early times when he had treated the little girl with a courtesy which the young woman gratefully remembered. I don't think it was his wealth, accomplishments, or position that most attracted Polly, though these doubtless possessed a greater influence than she suspected. It was that indescribable something which women are quick to see and feel in men who have been blessed with wise and good mothers. This had an especial charm to Polly, for she soon found that this side of his character was not shown to every one. With most girls, he was very like the other young men of his set, except perhaps in a certain grace of manner which was as natural to him as his respect for all womankind. But with Fanny and Polly he showed the domestic traits and virtues which are more engaging to womanly women than any amount of cool intellect or worldly wisdom.
Polly had seen a good deal of him during her visits at the Shaws', where he was intimate, owing to the friendship between Madam and his mother; but she had never thought of him as a possible lover for either Fanny or herself because he was six or eight years older than they, and still sometimes assumed the part of a venerable mentor, as in the early days. Lately this had changed, especially towards Polly, and it flattered her more than she would confess even to herself. She knew he admired her one talent, respected her independence, and enjoyed her society; but when something warmer and more flattering than admiration, respect, or pleasure crept into his manner, she could not help seeing that one of the good gifts of this life was daily coming more and more within her reach, and began to ask herself if she could honestly receive the gift, and reward the giver.
At first she tried to think she could, but unfortunately hearts are so “contrary” that they won't be obedient to reason, will, or even gratitude. Polly felt a very cordial friendship for Mr. Sydney, but not one particle of the love which is the only coin in which love can be truly paid. Then she took a fancy into her head that she ought to accept this piece of good fortune for the sake of the family, and forget herself. But this false idea of self-sacrifice did not satisfy, for she was not a fashionable girl trained to believe that her first duty was to make “a good match” and never mind the consequences, though they rendered her miserable for life. Polly's creed was very simple: “If I don't love him, I ought not to marry him, especially when I do love somebody else, though everything is against me.” If she had read as many French novels as some young ladies, she might have considered it interesting to marry under the circumstances and suffer a secret anguish to make her a romantic victim. But Polly's education had been neglected, and after a good deal of natural indecision she did what most women do in such cases, thought she would “wait and see.”
The discovery of Fanny's secret seemed to show her something to do, for if the “wait and see” decision was making her friend unhappy, it must be changed as soon as possible. This finished Polly's indecision, and after that night she never allowed herself to dwell upon the pleasant temptation which came in a guise particularly attractive to a young girl with a spice of the old Eve in her composition. So day after day she trudged through the dull back streets, longing for the sunny park, the face that always brightened when it saw her coming, and most of all the chance of meeting well, it was n't Trix.
When Saturday came, Polly started as usual for a visit to Becky and Bess, but could n't resist stopping at the Shaws' to leave a little parcel for Fan, though it was calling time. As she stepped in, meaning to run up for a word if Fanny should chance to be alone, two hats on the hall table arrested her.
“Who is here, Katy?”
“Only Mr. Sydney and Master Tom. Won't you stop a bit, Miss Polly?”
“Not this morning, I'm rather in a hurry.” And away went Polly as if a dozen eager pupils were clamoring for her presence. But as the door shut behind her she felt so left out in the cold, that her eyes filled, and when Nep, Tom's great Newfoundland, came blundering after her, she stopped and hugged his shaggy head, saying softly, as she looked into the brown, benevolent eyes, full of almost human sympathy: “Now, go back, old dear, you must n't follow me. Oh, Nep, it's so hard to put love away when you want it very much and it is n't right to take it.” A foolish little speech to make to a dog, but you see Polly was only a tender-hearted girl, trying to do her duty.
“Since he is safe with Fanny, I may venture to walk where I like. It's such a lovely day, all the babies will be out, and it always does me good to see them,” thought Polly, turning into the wide, sunny street, where West End-dom promenaded at that hour.
The babies were out in full force, looking as gay and delicate and sweet as the snow-drops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks whence the snow had melted. But somehow the babies did n't do Polly the good she expected, though they smiled at her from their carriages, and kissed their chubby hands as she passed them, for Polly had the sort of face that babies love. One tiny creature in blue plush was casting despairing glances after a very small lord of creation who was walking away with a toddling belle in white, while a second young gentleman in gorgeous purple gaiters was endeavoring to console the deserted damsel.
“Take hold of Master Charley's hand, Miss Mamie, and walk pretty, like Willy and Flossy,” said the maid.
“No, no, I want to do wid Willy, and he won't let me. Do'way, Tarley, I don't lite you,” cried little Blue-bonnet, casting down her ermine muff and sobbing in a microscopic handkerchief, the thread-lace edging on which could n't mitigate her woe, as it might have done that of an older sufferer.
“Willy likes Flossy best, so stop crying and come right along, you naughty child.”
As poor little Dido was jerked away by the unsympathetic maid, and Purple-gaiters essayed in vain to plead his cause, Polly said to herself, with a smile and a sigh; “How early the old story begins!”
It seemed as if the spring weather had brought out all manner of tender things beside fresh grass and the first dandelions, for as she went down the street Polly kept seeing different phases of the sweet old story which she was trying to forget.
At a street corner, a black-eyed school-boy was parting from a rosy-faced school-girl, whose music roll he was reluctantly surrendering.
“Don't you forget, now,” said the boy, looking bashfully into the bright eyes that danced with pleasure as the girl blushed and smiled, and answered reproachfully; “Why, of course I shan't!”
“That little romance runs smoothly so far; I hope it may to the end,” said Polly heartily as she watched the lad tramp away, whistling as blithely as if his pleasurable emotions must find a vent, or endanger the buttons on the round jacket; while the girl pranced on her own doorstep, as if practising for the joyful dance which she had promised not to forget.
A little farther on Polly passed a newly engaged couple whom she knew, walking arm in arm for the first time, both wearing that proud yet conscious look which is so delightful to behold upon the countenances of these temporarily glorified beings.
“How happy they seem; oh, dear!” said Polly, and trudged on, wondering if her turn would ever come and fearing that it was impossible.
A glimpse of a motherly-looking lady entering a door, received by a flock of pretty children, who cast themselves upon mamma and her parcels with cries of rapture, did Polly good; and when, a minute after she passed a gray old couple walking placidly together in the sunshine, she felt better still, and was glad to see such a happy ending to the romance she had read all down the street.
As if the mischievous little god wished to take Polly at a disadvantage, or perhaps to give her another chance, just at that instant Mr. Sydney appeared at her side. How he got there was never very clear to Polly, but there he was, flushed, and a little out of breath, but looking so glad to see her that she had n't the heart to be stiff and cool, as she had fully intended to be when they met.
“Very warm, is n't it?” he said when he had shaken hands and fallen into step, just in the old way.
“You seem to find it so.” And Polly laughed, with a sudden sparkle in her eyes. She really could n't help it, it was so pleasant to see him again, just when she was feeling so lonely.
“Have you given up teaching the Roths?” asked Sydney, changing the subject.
“No.”
“Do you go as usual?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it's a mystery to me how you get there.”
“As much as it is to me how you got here so suddenly.”
“I saw you from the Shaws' window and took the liberty of running after you by the back street,” he said, laughing.
“That is the way I get to the Roths,” answered Polly. She did not mean to tell, but his frankness was so agreeable she forgot herself.
“It's not nearly so pleasant or so short for you as the park.”
“I know it, but people sometimes get tired of old ways and like to try new ones.”
Polly did n't say that quite naturally, and Sydney gave her a quick look, as he asked; “Do you get tired of old friends, too, Miss Polly?”
“Not often; but” And there she stuck, for the fear of being ungrateful or unkind made her almost hope that he would n't take the hint which she had been carefully preparing for him.
There was a dreadful little pause, which Polly broke by saying abruptly; “How is Fan?”
“Dashing, as ever. Do you know I'm rather disappointed in Fanny, for she don't seem to improve with her years,” said Sydney, as if he accepted the diversion and was glad of it.
“Ah, you never see her at her best. She puts on that dashing air before people to hide her real self. But I know her better; and I assure you that she does improve; she tries to mend her faults, though she won't own it, and will surprise you some day, by the amount of heart and sense and goodness she has got.”
Polly spoke heartily now, and Sydney looked at her as if Fanny's defender pleased him more than Fanny's defence.
“I'm very glad to hear it, and willingly take your word for it. Everybody shows you their good side, I think, and that is why you find the world such a pleasant place.”
“Oh, but I don't! It often seems like a very hard and dismal place, and I croak over my trials like an ungrateful raven.”
“Can't we make the trials lighter for you?”
The voice that put the question was so very kind, that Polly dared not look up, because she knew what the eyes were silently saying.
“Thank you, no. I don't get more tribulation than is good for me, I fancy, and we are apt to make mistakes when we try to dodge troubles.”
“Or people,” added Sydney in a tone that made Polly color up to her forehead.
“How lovely the park looks,” she said, in great confusion.
“Yes, it's the pleasantest walk we have; don't you think so?” asked the artful young man, laying a trap, into which Polly immediately fell.
“Yes, indeed! It's always so refreshing to me to see a little bit of the country, as it were, especially at this season.”
Oh, Polly, Polly, what a stupid speech to make, when you had just given him to understand that you were tired of the park! Not being a fool or a cox-comb, Sydney put this and that together, and taking various trifles into the account, he had by this time come to the conclusion that Polly had heard the same bits of gossip that he had, which linked their names together, that she did n't like it, and tried to show she did n't in this way. He was quicker to take a hint than she had expected, and being both proud and generous, resolved to settle the matter at once, for Polly's sake as well as his own. So, when she made her last brilliant remark, he said quietly, watching her face keenly all the while; “I thought so; well, I'm going out of town on business for several weeks, so you can enjoy your'little bit of country' without being annoyed by me.”
“Annoyed? Oh, no!” cried Polly earnestly; then stopped short, not knowing what to say for herself. She thought she had a good deal of the coquette in her, and I've no doubt that with time and training she would have become a very dangerous little person, but now she was far too transparent and straightforward by nature even to tell a white lie cleverly. Sydney knew this, and liked her for it, but he took advantage of it, nevertheless by asking suddenly; “Honestly, now, would n't you go the old way and enjoy it as much as ever, if I was n't anywhere about to set the busybodies gossiping?”
“Yes,” said Polly, before she could stop herself, and then could have bitten her tongue out for being so rude. Another awful pause seemed impending, but just at that moment a horseman clattered by with a smile and a salute, which caused Polly to exclaim, “Oh, there's Tom!” with a tone and a look that silenced the words hovering on Sydney's lips, and caused him to hold out his hand with a look which made Polly's heart flutter then and ache with pity for a good while afterward, though he only said, “Good by, Polly.”
He was gone before she could do anything but look up at him with a remorseful face, and she walked on, feeling that the first and perhaps the only lover she would ever have, had read his answer and accepted it in silence. She did not know what else he had read, and comforted herself with the thought that he did not care for her very much, since he took the first rebuff so quickly.
Polly did not return to her favorite walk till she learned from Minnie that “Uncle” had really left town, and then she found that his friendly company and conversation was what had made the way so pleasant after all. She sighed over the perversity of things in general, and croaked a little over her trials in particular, but on the whole got over her loss better than she expected, for soon she had other sorrows beside her own to comfort, and such work does a body more good than floods of regretful tears, or hours of sentimental lamentation.
She shunned Fanny for a day or two, but gained nothing by it, for that young lady, hearing of Sydney's sudden departure, could not rest till she discovered the cause of it, and walked in upon Polly one afternoon just when the dusk made it a propitious hour for tender confidences.
“What have you been doing with yourself lately?” asked Fanny, composing herself, with her back toward the rapidly waning light.
“Wagging to and fro as usual. What's the news with you?” answered Polly, feeling that something was coming and rather glad to have it over and done with.
“Nothing particular. Trix treats Tom shamefully, and he bears it like a lamb. I tell him to break his engagement, and not be worried so; but he won't, because she has been jilted once and he thinks it's such a mean thing to do.”
“Perhaps she'll jilt him.”
“I've no doubt she will, if anything better comes along. But Trix is getting passe, and I should n't wonder if she kept him to his word, just out of perversity, if nothing else.”
“Poor Tom, what a fate!” said Polly with what was meant to be a comical groan; but it sounded so tragical that she saw it would n't pass, and hastened to hide the failure by saying, with a laugh, “If you call Trix passe at twenty-three, what shall we all be at twenty-five?” “Utterly done with, and laid upon the shelf. I feel so already, for I don't get half the attention I used to have, and the other night I heard Maud and Grace wondering why those old girls'did n't stay at home, and give them a chance.'”
“How is Maudie?”
“Pretty well, but she worries me by her queer tastes and notions. She loves to go into the kitchen and mess, she hates to study, and said right before the Vincents that she should think it would be great fun to be a beggar-girl, to go round with a basket, it must be so interesting to see what you'd get.”
“Minnie said the other day she wished she was a pigeon so she could paddle in the puddles and not fuss about rubbers.”
“By the way, when is her uncle coming back?” asked Fanny, who could n't wait any longer and joyfully seized the opening Polly made for her.
“I'm sure I don't know.”
“Nor care, I suppose, you hard-hearted thing.”
“Why, Fan, what do you mean?”
“I'm not blind, my dear, neither is Tom, and when a young gentleman cuts a call abruptly short, and races after a young lady, and is seen holding her hand at the quietest corner of the park, and then goes travelling all of a sudden, we know what it means if you don't.”
“Who got up that nice idea, I should like to know?” demanded Polly, as Fanny stopped for breath.
“Now don't be affected, Polly, but just tell me, like a dear, has n't he proposed?”
“No, he has n't.”
“Don't you think he means to?”
“I don't think he'll ever say a word to me.”
“Well, I am surprised!” And Fanny drew a long breath, as if a load was off her mind. Then she added in a changed tone: “But don't you love him, Polly?”
“No.”
“Truly?”
“Truly, Fan.”
Neither spoke for a minute, but the heart of one of them beat joyfully and the dusk hid a very happy face.
“Don't you think he cared for you, dear?” asked Fanny, presently. “I don't mean to be prying, but I really thought he did.”
“That's not for me to say, but if it is so, it's only a passing fancy and he'll soon get over it.”
“Do tell me all about it; I'm so interested, and I know something has happened, I hear it in your voice, for I can't see your face.”
“Do you remember the talk we once had after reading one of Miss Edgeworth's stories about not letting one's lovers come to a declaration if one did n't love them?”
“Yes.”
“And you girls said it was n't proper, and I said it was honest, anyway. Well, I always meant to try it if I got a chance, and I have. Mind you, I don't say Mr. Sydney loved me, for he never said so, and never will, now, but I did fancy he rather liked me and might do more if I did n't show him that it was of no use.”
“And you did?” cried Fanny, much excited.
“I just gave him a hint and he took it. He meant to go away before that, so don't think his heart is broken, or mind what silly tattlers say. I did n't like his meeting me so much and told him so by going another way. He understood, and being a gentleman, made no fuss. I dare say he thought I was a vain goose, and laughed at me for my pains, like Churchill in 'Helen.'”
“No, he would n't; He'd like it and respect you for doing it. But, Polly, it would have been a grand thing for you.”
“I can't sell myself for an establishment.”
“Mercy! What an idea!”
“Well, that's the plain English of half your fashionable matches. I'm 'odd,' you know, and prefer to be an independent spinster and teach music all my days.”
“Ah, but you won't. You were made for a nice, happy home of your own, and I hope you'll get it, Polly, dear,” said Fanny warmly, feeling so grateful to Polly, that she found it hard not to pour out all her secret at once.
“I hope I may; but I doubt it,” answered Polly in a tone that made Fanny wonder if she, too, knew what heartache meant.
“Something troubles you, Polly, what is it? Confide in me, as I do in you,” said Fanny tenderly, for all the coldness she had tried to hide from Polly, had melted in the sudden sunshine that had come to her.
“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 did n't mean to let a lover part this pair of friends if I could help it.”
GOING 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 is n'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 would n'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 up stairs, and come in and hear about it,” he said, as if he had been longing to tell some one, 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 would n'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 have n't horse whipped or shot any one?”
“Came pretty near blowing my own brains out but you see I did n'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 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 did n'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 did n'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 could n'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 did n'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 have n'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 did n't bring half I gave for him. I lamed him last winter, and the beggar won't get over it.”
“And that did n'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, is n't it?” asked Tom, who could n'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 did n'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 could n'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 could n't bear to have him shirk and seem cowardly. He is n't, only he did n'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 would n'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 could n'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 to-morrow every one 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 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 has n't touched mother's money; he'could n't rob his girls,' he said, and that's all safe for'em. Is n'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 could n't spoil it.
That sound gave Polly more pain than the news of a dozen failures and expulsions, and it was as impossible for her to resist putting her hand tenderly on the bent head, as it was for her to help noticing with pleasure how brown the little curls were growing, and how soft they were. In spite of her sorrow, she enjoyed that minute very much, for she was a born consoler, and, it is hardly necessary for me to add, loved this reprehensible Tom with all her heart. It was a very foolish thing for her to do, she quite agreed to that; she could n't understand it, explain it, or help it; she only felt that she did care for him very much, in spite of his faults, his indifference, and his engagement. You see, she learned to love him one summer, when he made them a visit. That was before Trix caught him; and when she heard that piece of news, Polly could n't unlove him all at once, though she tried very hard, as was her duty. That engagement was such a farce, that she never had much faith in it, so she put her love away in a corner of her heart, and tried to forget it, hoping it would either die, or have a right to live. It did n't make her very miserable, because patience, work, and common-sense lent her a hand, and hope would keep popping up its bright face from the bottom of her Pandora-box of troubles. Now and then, when any one said Trix would n't jilt Tom, or that Tom did care for Trix more than he should, Polly had a pang, and thought she could n't possibly bear it. But she always found she could, and so came to the conclusion that it was a merciful provision of nature that girls' hearts could stand so much, and their appetites continue good, when unrequited love was starving.
Now, she could not help yearning over this faulty, well-beloved scapegrace Tom, or help thinking, with a little thrill of hope, “If Trix only cared for his money, she may cast him off now he's lost it; but I'll love him all the better because he's poor.” With this feeling warm at her heart, I don't wonder that Polly's hand had a soothing effect, and that after a heave or two, Tom's shoulders were quiet, and certain smothered sniffs suggested that he would be all right again, if he could only wipe his eyes without any one's seeing him do it.
Polly seemed to divine his wish, and tucking a little, clean handkerchief into one of his half-open hands, she said, “I'm going to your father, now,” and with a farewell smooth, so comforting that Tom wished she'd do it again, she went away.
As she paused a minute in the hall to steady herself, Maud called her from above, and thinking that the women might need her more than the men, she ran up to find Fanny waiting for her in her own room.
“Mamma's asleep, quite worn out, poor dear, so we can talk in here without troubling her,” said Fanny, receiving her friend so quietly, that Polly was amazed.
“Let me come, too, I won't make any fuss; it's so dreadful to be shut out everywhere, and have people crying and talking, and locked up, and I not know what it means,” said Maud, beseechingly.
“You do know, now; I've told her, Polly,” said Fan, as they sat down together, and Maud perched herself on the bed, so that she might retire among the pillows if her feelings were too much for her.
“I'm glad you take it so well, dear; I was afraid it might upset you,” said Polly, seeing now that in spite of her quiet manner, Fan's eyes had an excited look, and her cheeks a feverish color.
“I shall groan and moan by and by, I dare say, but at first it sort of dazed me, and now it begins to excite me. I ought to be full of sorrow for poor papa, and I am truly sorry, but, wicked as it may seem, it's a fact, Polly, that I'm half glad it's happened, for it takes me out of myself, and gives me something to do.”
Fanny's eyes fell and her color rose as she spoke, but Polly understood why she wanted to forget herself, and put her arm round her with a more tender sympathy than Fanny guessed.
“Perhaps things are not as bad as they seem; I don't know much about such matters, but I've seen people who have failed, and they seemed just as comfortable as before,” said Polly.
“It won't be so with us, for papa means to give up everything, and not have a word said against him. Mamma's little property is settled upon her, and has n't been risked. That touched her so much! She dreads poverty even more than I do, but she begged him to take it if it would help him. That pleased him, but he said nothing would induce him to do it, for it would n't help much, and was hardly enough to keep her comfortable.”
“Do you know what he means to do?” asked Polly, anxiously.
“He said his plans were not made, but he meant to go into the little house that belonged to grandma, as soon as he could, for it was n't honest for a bankrupt to keep up an establishment like this.”
“I shan't mind that at all, I like the little house'cause it's got a garden, and there's a cunning room with a three-cornered closet in it that I always wanted. If that's all, I don't think bankrupting is so very bad,” said Maud, taking a cheerful view of things.
“Ah, just wait till the carriage goes and the nice clothes and the servants, and we have to scratch along as we can. You'll change your mind then, poor child,” said Fanny, whose ideas of failure were decidedly tragical.
“Will they take all my things away?” cried Maud, in dismay.
“I dare say; I don't know what we are allowed to keep; but not much, I fancy,” and Fan looked as if strung up to sacrifice everything she possessed.
“They shan't have my new ear-rings, I'll hide'em, and my best dress, and my gold smelling bottle. Oh, oh, oh! I think it's mean to take a little girl's things away!” And Maud dived among the pillows to smother a wail of anguish at the prospect of being bereft of her treasures.
Polly soon lured her out again, by assurances that she would n't be utterly despoiled, and promises to try and soften the hard hearts of her father's creditors, if the ear-rings and the smelling-bottle were attached.
“I wonder if we shall be able to keep one servant, just till we learn how to do the work,” said Fanny, looking at her white hands, with a sigh.
But Maud clapped hers, and gave a joyful bounce, as she cried, “Now I can learn to cook! I love so to beat eggs! I'll have an apron, with a bib to it, like Polly's, and a feather duster, and sweep the stairs, maybe, with my head tied up, like Katy. Oh, what fun!”
“Don't laugh at her, or discourage her; let her find comfort in bibs and dust-pans, if she can,” whispered Polly to Fan, while Maud took a joyful “header” among the pillows, and came up smiling and blowzy, for she loved house-work, and often got lectured for stolen visits to the kitchen, and surreptitious sweepings and dustings when the coast was clear.
“Mamma is so feeble, I shall have to keep house, I suppose, and you must show me how, Polly,” said Fan.
“Good practice, ma'am, as you'll find out some day,” answered Polly, laughing significantly.
Fanny smiled, then grew both grave and sad. “This changes everything; the old set will drop me, as we did the Mertons when their father failed, and my'prospects,' as we say, are quite ruined.”
“I don't believe it; your real friends won't drop you, and you'll find out which the true ones are now. I know one friend who will be kinder than ever.”
“Oh, Polly, do you think so?” and Fanny's eyes softened with sudden tears.
“I know who she means,” cried Maud, always eager to find out things. “It 's herself; Polly won't mind if we are poor, 'cause she likes beggars.”
“Is that who you meant?” asked Fan, wistfully.
“No, it's a much better and dearer friend than I am,” said Polly, pinching Fanny's cheek, as it reddened prettily under her eyes. “You'll never guess, Maud, so I would n't try, but be planning what you will put in your cunning, three-cornered closet, when you get it.”
Having got rid of “Miss Paulina Pry,” as Tom called Maud, who was immediately absorbed by her cupboard, the older girls soberly discussed the sudden change which had come, and Polly was surprised to see what unexpected strength and sense Fanny showed. Polly was too unconscious of the change which love had made in herself to understand at first the cause of her friend's new patience and fortitude; but she rejoiced over it, and felt that her prophecy would yet be fulfilled. Presently Maud emerged from her new closet, bringing a somewhat startling idea with her.
“Do bankrupting men” (Maud liked that new word) “always have fits?”
“Mercy, no! What put that into your head, child?” cried Polly.
“Why, Mr. Merton did; and I was thinking perhaps papa had got one down there, and it kind of frightened me.”
“Mr. Merton's was a bad, disgraceful failure, and I don't wonder he had a fit. Ours is n't, and papa won't do anything of that sort, you may be sure,” said Fanny, with as proud an air as if “our failure” was rather an honor than otherwise.
“Don't you think you and Maud had better go down and see him?” asked Polly.
“Perhaps he would n't like it; and I don't know what to say, either,” began Fan; but Polly said, eagerly, “I know he would like it. Never mind what you say; just go, and show him that you don't doubt or blame him for this, but love him all the more, and are ready and glad to help him bear the trouble.”
“I'm going, I ain't afraid; I'll just hug him, and say I'm ever so glad we are going to the little house,” cried Maud, scrambling off the bed, and running down stairs.
“Come with me, Polly, and tell me what to do,” said Fanny, drawing her friend after her.
“You'll know what to do when you see him, better than I can tell you,” answered Polly, readily yielding, for she knew they considered her “quite one of the family,” as Tom said.
At the study door they found Maud, whose courage had given out, for Mr. Merton's fit rather haunted her. Polly opened the door; and the minute Fanny saw her father, she did know what to do. The fire was low, the gas dim, and Mr. Shaw was sitting in his easy-chair, his gray head in both his hands, looking lonely, old, and bowed down with care. Fanny gave Polly one look, then went and took the gray head in both her arms, saying, with a tender quiver in her voice, “Father dear, we've come to help you bear it.”
Mr. Shaw looked up, and seeing in his daughter's face something that never had been there before, put his arm about her, and leaned his tired head against her, as if, when least expected, he had found the consolation he most needed. In that minute, Fanny felt, with mingled joy and self-reproach, what a daughter might be to her father; and Polly, thinking of feeble, selfish Mrs. Shaw, asleep up stairs, saw with sudden clearness what a wife should be to her husband, a helpmeet, not a burden. Touched by these unusual demonstrations, Maud crept quietly to her father's knee, and whispered, with a great tear shining on her little pug nose, “Papa, we don't mind it much, and I'm going to help Fan keep house for you; I'd like to do it, truly.”
Mr. Shaw's other arm went round the child, and for a minute no one said anything, for Polly had slipped behind his chair, that nothing should disturb the three, who were learning from misfortune how much they loved one another. Presently Mr. Shaw steadied himself and asked, “Where is my other daughter, where's my Polly?”
She was there at once; gave him one of the quiet kisses that had more than usual tenderness in it, for she loved to hear him say “my other daughter,” and then she whispered, “Don't you want Tom, too?”
“Of course I do; where is the poor fellow?”
“I'll bring him;” and Polly departed with most obliging alacrity.
But in the hall she paused a minute to peep into the glass and see if she was all right, for somehow she was more anxious to look neat and pretty to Tom in his hour of trouble than she had ever been in his prosperous days. In lifting her arms to perk up the bow at her throat she knocked a hat off the bracket. Now, a shiny black beaver is not an object exactly calculated to inspire tender or romantic sentiments, one would fancy, but that particular “stove pipe” seemed to touch Polly to the heart, for she caught it up, as if its fall suggested a greater one, smoothed out a slight dint, as if it was symbolical of the hard knocks its owner's head was now in danger of receiving, and stood looking at it with as much pity and respect, as if it had been the crown of a disinherited prince. Girls will do such foolish little things, and though we laugh at them, I think we like them the better for it, after all.
Richard was himself again when Polly entered, for the handkerchief had disappeared, his head was erect, his face was steady, and his whole air had a dogged composure which seemed to say to fate, “Hit away, I'm ready.” He did not hear Polly come in, for he was looking fixedly at the fire with eyes that evidently saw a very different future there from that which it used to show him; but when she said, “Tom, dear, your father wants you,” he got up at once, held out his hand to her, saying, “Come too, we can't get on without you,” and took her back into the study with him.
Then they had a long talk, for the family troubles seemed to warm and strengthen the family affection and confidence, and as the young people listened while Mr. Shaw told them as much of his business perplexities as they could understand, every one of them blamed him or herself for going on so gayly and blindly, while the storm was gathering, and the poor man was left to meet it all alone. Now, however, the thunder-clap had come, and after the first alarm, finding they were not killed, they began to discover a certain half-anxious, half-pleasant excitement in talking it over, encouraging one another, and feeling unusually friendly, as people do when a sudden shower drives two or three to the shelter of one umbrella.
It was a sober talk, but not all sad, for Mr. Shaw felt inexpressibly comforted by his children's unexpected sympathy, and they, trying to take the downfall cheerfully for his sake, found it easier to bear themselves. They even laughed occasionally, for the girls, in their ignorance, asked queer questions; Tom made ludicrously unbusiness-like propositions; and Maud gave them one hearty peal, that did a world of good, by pensively remarking, when the plans for the future had been explained to her, “I'm so relieved; for when papa said we must give up everything, and mamma called us all beggars, I did think I'd got to go round asking for cold vittles, with a big basket, and an old shawl over my head. I said once I 'd like that, but I'm afraid I should n't, for I can't bear Indian cake and cold potatoes, that's what the poor children always seem to get, and I should hate to have Grace and the rest see me scuffing round the back gates.”
“My little girl shall never come to that, if I can help it,” said Mr. Shaw, holding her close, with a look that made Maud add, as she laid her cheek against his own, “But I'd do it, father, if you asked me to, for I truly want to help.”
“So do I!” cried Fanny, wondering at the same minute how it would seem to wear turned silks, and clean her gloves.
Tom said nothing, but drew toward him a paper of figures which his father had drawn up, and speedily reduced himself to the verge of distraction by trying to understand them, in his ardent desire to prove his willingness to put his shoulder to the wheel.
“We shall pull through, children, so don't borrow trouble, only be ready for discomforts and annoyances. Put your pride in your pockets, and remember poverty is n't disgraceful, but dishonesty is.”
Polly had always loved kind Mr. Shaw, but now she respected him heartily, and felt that she had not done him justice when she sometimes thought that he only cared for making money.
“I should n't wonder if this was a good thing for the whole family, though it don't look so. Mrs. Shaw will take it the hardest, but it may stir her up, so she will forget her nerves, and be as busy and happy as mother is,” said Polly to herself, in a hopeful mood, for poverty was an old friend, and she had learned long ago not to fear it, but to take its bitter and its sweet, and make the best of both.
When they parted for the night, Polly slipped away first, to leave them free, yet could n't help lingering outside to see how tenderly the girls parted from their father. Tom had n't a word to say for himself, for men don't kiss, caress, or cry when they feel most, and all he could do to express his sympathy and penitence, was to wring his father's hand with a face full of respect, regret, and affection, and then bolt up stairs as if the furies were after him, as they were, in a mild and modern form.