THE weeks that followed taught the Shaws, as many other families have been taught, how rapidly riches take to themselves wings and fly away, when they once begin to go. Mr. Shaw carried out his plans with an energy and patience that worked wonders, and touched the hearts of his hardest creditors. The big house was given up as soon as possible and the little house taken; being made comfortable with the furniture Madam left there when she went to live with her son. The old-fashioned things had been let with the house, and now seemed almost like a gift from Grandma, doubly precious in these troublous times. At the auction, several persons tried to show the family that, though they had lost their fortune, friends still remained, for one bid in Fanny's piano, and sent it to her; another secured certain luxurious articles for Mrs. Shaw's comfort; and a third saved such of Mr. Shaw's books as he valued most, for he had kept his word and given up everything, with the most punctilious integrity. So the little house was not bare, but made pleasant to their eyes by these waifs from the wreck, brought them by the tide of sympathy and good-will which soon set in. Everybody who knew them hastened to call, many from a real regard, but more from mere curiosity to “see how they took it.” This was one of the hardest things they had to bear, and Tom used strong language more than once, when some fine lady came to condole, and went away to gossip. Polly's hopes of Mrs. Shaw were disappointed, for misfortune did not have a bracing effect. She took to her bed at once, received her friends in tears and a point-lace cap, and cheered her family by plaintively inquiring when she was to be taken to the almshouse. This was hard for Fanny; but after an interval of despair, she came to the conclusion that under the circumstances it was the best thing her mother could have done, and with something of her father's energy, Fanny shouldered the new burden, feeling that at last necessity had given her what she had long needed, something to do.
The poor girl knew as much of household affairs as Snip; but pride and the resolution “to stand by Father,” kept up her courage, and she worked away with feverish activity at whatever task came first till, just as strength and heart were about to fail, order began to emerge from chaos and the vision of a home made happy and comfortable by her skill and care came to repay and sustain her.
Maud, being relieved from the fear of back-door beggary, soon became reconciled to bankruptcy; thought it rather a good joke, on the whole, for children like novelty, and don't care much for Mrs. Grundy. She regarded the new abode as a baby house on a large scale, where she was allowed to play her part in the most satisfactory manner. From the moment when, on taking possession of the coveted room, she opened the doors of the three-cornered closet, and found a little kettle just like Polly's, standing there, she felt that a good time was coming for her and fell to dusting furniture, washing cups, and making toast, the happiest, fussiest little housewife in the city. For Maud inherited the notable gifts of her grandmother, and would have made a capital farmer's daughter, in spite of her city breeding.
Polly came and went through all these changes, faithful, helpful, and as cheery as she could be when her friends were in trouble. The parts seemed reversed now, and it was Polly who gave, Fanny who received; for where everything seemed strange and new to Fan, Polly was quite at home, and every one of the unfashionable domestic accomplishments now came into play, to the comfort of the Shaws, and the great satisfaction of Polly. She could not do enough to prove her gratitude for former favors, and went toiling and moiling about, feeling that the hardest, most disagreeable tasks were her especial duty. In the moving nothing suited her better than to trot up and down, lugging heavy things, to pound her fingers black and blue nailing carpets and curtains, and the day she nearly broke her neck tumbling down the cellar stairs, in her eagerness to see that Mrs. Shaw's wine was rightly stored, she felt that she was only paying her debts, and told Tom she liked it, when he picked her up looking as grimy as a chimney-sweep.
“You can turn your hand to anything, you clever girl, so do come and give me some advice, for I am in the depths of despair,” said Fanny when the “maid-of-all-work” as Polly called herself, found a leisure hour.
“What is it? Moths in the furs, a smoky chimney, or small-pox next door?” asked Polly, as they entered Fan's room, where Maud was trying on old bonnets before the looking-glass.
“Actually I have nothing to wear,” began Fan impressively; “I've been too busy to think or care till now, but here it is nearly May and I have hardly a decent rag to my back. Usually, you know, I just go to Mrs. O'Grady and tell her what I want; she makes my spring wardrobe, Papa pays the bill, and there I am. Now I've looked into the matter, and I declare to you, Polly, I'm frightened to see how much it costs to dress me.”
“Not so much as some girls I know,” said Polly encouragingly.
“Perhaps not, for I have a conscience, and taste is economy sometimes; but really, Polly, I have n't the heart to ask Papa for a cent just now, and yet I must have clothes. You are such a genius for planning and working wonders, that I throw myself upon you and ask, 'How shall I make a spring wardrobe out of nothing?'”
“Let me see the'nothing' before I advise. Bring out every rag you've got, and we'll see what can be done,” said Polly, looking as if she enjoyed the prospect, for she had a great deal of that feminine faculty which we call “knack,” and much practice had increased it.
Fanny brought out her “rags” and was astonished to see how many she had, for chair, sofa, bed, and bureau were covered, and still Maud, who was burrowing in the closets, kept crying, “Here's another.”
“There's a discouraging heap of rubbish for you!” said Fan, as she added a faded muslin to the last pile.
“Now, to me your'rubbish' looks very encouraging, because there is good material there, and not much worn-out finery, that's my detestation, for you can't do anything with it. Let me see, five bonnets. Put the winter ones away till autumn, rip up the summer ones, and out of three old ones we'll get a pretty new one, if my eyes don't deceive me.”
“I'll rip, and then do let me see you make a bonnet, it must be so interesting,” said Maud, whipping out her scissors and eagerly beginning to reduce a shabby little bonnet to its original elements. “Now the dresses,” continued Polly, who had rapidly sorted out the piles.
“Will you have the goodness to look at this?” said Fan, holding up a gray street suit faded past cure.
Polly whisked it wrong side out, and showing the clean, bright fabric, said, with a triumphant wave, “Behold your new suit; fresh trimming and less of it will finish you off as smart as ever.”
“I never wore a turned dress in my life; do you suppose people will know it?” said Fan doubtfully.
“What if they do? It won't hurt you. Not one in a hundred will ever think anything about your dress, except that it is pretty. I've worn turned and dyed gowns all my days, and it don't seem to have alienated my friends, or injured my constitution.”
“That it has n't; I'm a goose, Polly, and I'll get over the feeling that it's sort of disgraceful to be poor and have to economize. We'll turn the gray, and I'll wear it bravely.”
“Then it will be more becoming than ever. Oh, here's the pretty violet silk. That will make a lovely suit,” cried Polly, going on with the review.
“Don't see how two draggled skirts and a stained waist can be transformed into a whole rig,” said Fan, sitting on the bed, with her garments strewn about her in various attitudes of limp despondency.
“Well, ma'am, my plan is this,” began Polly, imitating Mrs. O'Grady's important tone, and bad grammar: “Gores is out, and plaits is in; therefore, as the top of this skirt is quite fresh, we will take off the ruffles, turn it upside down, and leave it plain. The upper skirt will be made scanter, and finished with a frill; then the waist can be refreshed with the best parts of these wide flounces, and out of those new bits we will concoct a hat. The black lace Maud has just taken off the green one will do to edge the violet, and with your nice silk mantilla you are complete, don't you see?”
“I don't quite see it yet, but I have firm faith that I shall in time, and consider my calling costume finished,” said Fanny, getting more and more interested as she saw her condemned wardrobe coming out fresh again under Polly's magic knack.
“There are two; then that piqu, is all right, if you cut the tail off the jacket and change the trimming a bit. The muslins only need mending and doing up to look as well as ever; you ought not to put them away torn and soiled, my child. The two black silks will be good stand-bys for years. If I were you, I'd have a couple of neat, pretty prints for home-wear, and then I don't see why you are n't fixed well enough for our short season.”
“Can't I do anything with this barege? It's one of my favorite dresses, and I hate to give it up.”
“You wore that thoroughly out, and it's only fit for the rag-bag. Yes, it was very pretty and becoming, I remember, but its day is over.”
Fanny let the dress lie in her lap a minute as she absently picked at the fringe, smiling to herself over the happy time when she wore it last and Sydney said she only needed cowslips in her lap to look like spring. Presently she folded it up and put it away with a sigh, but it never went into the rag-bag, and my sentimental readers can understand what saved it.
“The ball dresses had better be put nicely away till next year,” began Polly, coming to a rainbow colored heap.
“My day is over, I shall never use them again. Do what you like with them,” said Fan calmly.
“Did you ever sell your cast-off finery, as many ladies do?” asked Polly.
“Never; I don't like the fashion. I give it away, or let Maud have it for tableaux.”
“I wonder if you would mind my telling you something Belle proposed?”
“If it's an offer to buy my clothes, I should mind,” answered Fanny, sharply.
“Then I won't,” and Polly retired behind a cloud of arsenic-green gauze, which made her look as if she had the cholera.
“If she wanted to buy that horrid new'gooseberry-colored gown,' as Tom calls it, I'd let her have it cheap,” put in Maud, who was of a practical turn.
“Does she want it, Polly?” asked Fan, whose curiosity got the better of her pride.
“Well, she merely asked me if I thought you'd be mortally offended, if she offered to take it off your hands, as you'd never worn it. You don't like it, and in another season it will be all out of fashion,” said Polly from her verdant retreat.
“What did you say?”
“I saw she meant it kindly, so I said I'd ask. Now between ourselves, Fan, the price of that dress would give you all you'll want for your spring fixings, that's one consideration; then here's another, which may have some weight with you,” added Polly slyly. “Trix told Belle she was going to ask you for the dress, as you would n't care to wear it now. That made Belle fire up, and say it was a mean thing to do without offering some return for a costly thing like that; and then Belle said, in her blunt way, 'I'll give Fan all she paid for it, and more, too, if it will be any help to her. I don't care for the dress, but I'd like to slip a little money into her pocket, for I know she needs it and is too good to ask dear Mr. Shaw for anything she can get on without.'”
“Did she say that? I'll give her the dress, and not take a penny for it,” cried Fan, flushing up with mingled anger toward Trix and gratitude to Belle.
“That won't suit her; you let me manage it, and don't feel any shame or anxiety about it. You did many a kind and generous thing for Belle when you had the power, and you liked to do it; now let her pay her debts, and have the same pleasure.”
“If she looks at it in that way, it makes a difference. Perhaps I'd better the money would be an immense help only I don't quite like to take it.”
“Kings and queens sell their jewels when times are hard or they get turned off their thrones, and no one thinks it anything amiss, so why need you? It's just a little transaction between two friends who exchange things they don't want for things which they do, and I'd do it if I were you.”
“We'll see about it,” said Fan, privately resolving to take Polly's advice.
“If I had lots of things like Fan, I'd have an auction and get all I could for them. Why don't you?” asked Maud, beginning on her third bonnet.
“We will,” said Polly, and mounting a chair, she put up, bid in, and knocked down Fan's entire wardrobe to an imaginary group of friends, with such droll imitations of each one that the room rang with laughter.
“That's enough nonsense; now we'll return to business,” said Polly, descending breathless but satisfied with the effect of her fun.
“These white muslins and pretty silks will keep for years, so I should lay them by till they are needed. It will save buying, and you can go to your stock any time and make over what you want. That's the way Mother does; we've always had things sent us from richer friends, and whatever was n't proper for us to wear at the time, Mother put away to be used when we needed it. Such funny bundles as we used to have sometimes, odd shoes, bonnets without crowns, stockings without heels or toes, and old finery of all sorts. We used to rush when a bundle came, and sit round while Mother opened it. The boys always made fun of the things, though they were as grateful, really, as any of us. Will made a verse one day which we thought pretty well for a little chap: 'To poor country folks Who have n't any clothes, Rich folks, to relieve them, Send old lace gowns and satin bows.'”
“I think that Will is going to be as nice a poet as Mr. Shakespeare,” remarked Maud in a tone of serious conviction.
“He is already a Milton; but I don't believe he will ever be anything but a poet in name,” said Polly, working away while she talked.
“Did n't your mother ever let you wear the nice things that came?” asked Maud.
“No, she thought it was n't the thing for a poor minister's girls to go flourishing about in second-hand finery, so she did what I'm doing now, put away what would be useful and proper for us by and by, and let us play with the shabby, silk bonnets and dirty, flounced gowns. Such fun as we used to have up in our big garret! I remember one day we'd been playing have a ball, and were all rigged up, even the boys. Some new neighbors came to call, and expressed a wish to see us, having been told that we were pattern children. Mother called us, but we had paraded out into the garden, after our ball, and were having a concert, as we sat about on the cabbages for green satin seats, so we did n't hear the call, and just as the company was going, a great noise arrested them on the doorstep, and round the corner of the house rattled Ned in full costume, wheeling Kitty in a barrow, while Jimmy, Will, and I ran screaming after, looking like Bedlamites; for we were playing that Lady Fitz Perkins had fainted, and was being borne home senseless in a cab. I thought mother would kill herself with laughing; and you can imagine what a fine impression the strangers received of the model children.”
Maud was so tickled with this youthful prank that she unguardedly sat down to laugh on the edge of an open trunk, immediately doubled up, fell in, and was with difficulty extricated.
“People in the country have great deal nicer times than we do. I never rode in a wheelbarrow, I never sat on cabbages, and I don't think it's fair,” she said with an injured expression. “You need n't save any old silk gowns for me; I don't mean to be a fine lady when I grow up, I'm going to be a farmer's wife, and make butter and cheese, and have ten children, and raise pigs,” she added in one enthusiastic burst.
“I do believe she will if she can find a farmer anywhere,” said Fanny.
“Oh, I'm going to have Will; I asked him and he said, 'All right.' He's going to preach Sundays, and work on the farm the rest of the time. Well, he is, so you need n't laugh, for we've made all our plans,” said Maud with comical dignity as she tried the effect of an old white bonnet, wondering if farmers' wives could wear ostrich feathers when they went to meeting.
“Blessed innocence! Don't you wish you were a child, and dared tell what you want?” murmured Fanny.
“I wish I had seen Will's face when Maud proposed,” answered Polly, with a nod which answered her friend's speech better than her words.
“Any news of anybody?” whispered Fan, affecting to examine a sleeve with care.
“Still at the South; don't think late events have been reported yet; that accounts for absence,” answered Polly.
“I think Sir Philip was hit harder than was supposed,” said Fan.
“I doubt it, but time cures wounds of that sort amazing quick.”
“Wish it did!”
“Who is Sir Philip?” demanded Maud, pricking up her ears.
“A famous man who lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth,” answered Fan, with a look at Polly.
“Oh!” And Maud seemed satisfied, but the sharp child had her suspicions nevertheless.
“There will be an immense deal of work in all this fixing over and I hate to sew,” said Fanny, to divert a certain person's thoughts.
“Jenny and I are going to help. We are your debtors, as well as Belle, and demand the privilege of paying up. Blessings, like curses, come home to roost, Fan.”
“Mine come home a good deal bigger than they went,” answered Fanny, looking pleased that little favors should be so faithfully remembered.
“The interest on that sort of investment rolls up beautifully, you know. Now rip that dress for Jenny to put in order, and I'll toss you up a bonnet in less than no time,” said Polly, determined to have things go smoothly, for she knew Fan's feelings had been a good deal tried lately, in many ways.
“I must have something to match my dress, and blue inside,” said Fanny, bringing out her ribbon boxes.
“Anything you like, my dear; when it comes to bonnets, I am usually inspired. I have it! There we are! And nothing could be nicer,” cried Polly, making a dive among the silks Fan was turning over with a lost expression. “This bit of silver-gray is all I ask, here's enough for a killing bonnet, and those forget-me-nots are both pretty and appropriate.”
“You wretch, be still!” cried Fanny, as Polly looked up at her with a wicked laugh in her eyes.
“It will be done in time, and the dress likewise, so look your prettiest, and accept my blessing,” continued Polly, seeing that Fan liked her raillery.
“Time for what?” asked Paulina Pry.
“Your wedding, dear,” sweetly answered Fan, for Polly's pleasant hints and predictions put her in a charming humor, and even made old clothes of little consequence.
Maud gave an incredulous sniff, and wondered why “big girls need to be so dreadful mysterious about their old secrets.”
“This silk reminds me of Kitty's performance last summer. A little checked silk was sent in our spring bundle from Mrs. Davenport, and Mother said Kit might have it if she could make it do. So I washed it nicely, and we fussed and planned, but it came short by half of one sleeve. I gave it up, but Kit went to work and matched every scrap that was left so neatly that she got out the half sleeve, put it on the under side, and no one was the wiser. How many pieces do you think she put in, Maud?”
“Fifty,” was the wise reply.
“No, only ten, but that was pretty well for a fourteen-year-old dressmaker. You ought to have seen the little witch laugh in her sleeve when any one admired the dress, for she wore it all summer and looked as pretty as a pink in it. Such things are great fun when you get used to them; besides, contriving sharpens your wits, and makes you feel as if you had more hands than most people.”
“I think we'll get a farm near your house; I should like to know Kitty,” said Maud, feeling a curious interest in a girl who made such peculiar patchwork.
“The dress-parade is over, and I'm ever so much obliged to you, Polly, for helping me through, and showing me how to make the best of things. I hope in time to have as many hands as you,” said Fan gratefully, when the simple bonnet was done and everything planned out ready to be finished.
“I hope you will soon have two good, strong ones beside your own, my dear,” answered Polly, as she vanished, with a parting twinkle that kept Fan's face bright all day.
I THINK Tom had the hardest time of all, for besides the family troubles, he had many of his own to perplex and harass him. College scrapes were soon forgotten in greater afflictions; but there were plenty of tongues to blame “that extravagant dog,” and plenty of heads to wag ominously over prophecies of the good time Tom Shaw would now make on the road to ruin. As reporters flourish in this country, of course Tom soon heard all the friendly criticisms passed upon him and his career, and he suffered more than anybody guessed; for the truth that was at the bottom of the gossip filled him with the sharp regret and impotent wrath against himself as well as others, which drives many a proud fellow, so placed, to destruction, or the effort that redeems boyish folly, and makes a man of him.
Now that he had lost his heritage, Tom seemed to see for the first time how goodly it had been, how rich in power, pleasure, and gracious opportunities. He felt its worth even while he acknowledged, with the sense of justice that is strong in manly men, how little he deserved a gift which he had so misused. He brooded over this a good deal, for, like the bat in the fable, he did n't seem to find any place in the new life which had begun for all. Knowing nothing of business, he was not of much use to his father, though he tried to be, and generally ended by feeling that he was a hindrance, not a help. Domestic affairs were equally out of his line, and the girls, more frank than their father, did not hesitate to tell him he was in the way when he offered to lend a hand anywhere. After the first excitement was over, and he had time to think, heart and energy seemed to die out, remorse got hold of him, and, as generous, thoughtless natures are apt to do when suddenly confronted with conscience, he exaggerated his faults and follies into sins of the deepest dye, and fancied he was regarded by others as a villain and an outcast. Pride and penitence made him shrink out of sight as much as possible, for he could not bear pity, even when silently expressed by a friendly hand or a kindly eye. He stayed at home a good deal, and loafed about with a melancholy and neglected air, vanished when anyone came, talked very little, and was either pathetically humble or tragically cross. He wanted to do something, but nothing seemed to appear; and while he waited to get his poise after the downfall, he was so very miserable that I'm afraid, if it had not been for one thing, my poor Tom would have got desperate, and been a failure. But when he seemed most useless, outcast, and forlorn, he discovered that one person needed him, one person never found him in the way, one person always welcomed and clung to him with the strongest affection of a very feeble nature. This dependence of his mother's was Tom's salvation at that crisis of his life; and the gossips, who said softly to one another over their muffins and tea. “It really would be a relief to that whole family if poor, dear Mrs. Shaw could be ahem! mercifully removed,” did not know that the invalid's weak, idle hands were unconsciously keeping the son safe in that quiet room, where she gave him all that she had to give, mother-love, till he took heart again, and faced the world ready to fight his battles manfully.
“Dear, dear! how old and bent poor father does look. I hope he won't forget to order my sweetbread,” sighed Mrs. Shaw one day, as she watched her husband slowly going down the street.
Tom, who stood by her, idly spinning the curtain tassel, followed the familiar figure with his eye, and seeing how gray the hair had grown, how careworn the florid face, and how like a weary old man his once strong, handsome father walked, he was smitten by a new pang of self-reproach, and with his usual impetuosity set about repairing the omission as soon as he discovered it.
“I'll see to your sweetbread, mum. Good-by, back to dinner,” and with a hasty kiss, Tom was off.
He did n't know exactly what he meant to do, but it had suddenly come over him, that he was hiding from the storm, and letting his father meet it alone; for the old man went to his office every day with the regularity of a machine, that would go its usual round until it stopped, while the young man stayed at home with the women, and let his mother comfort him.
“He has a right to be ashamed of me, but I act as if I was ashamed of him; dare say people think so. I'll show them that I ain't; yes, by the powers, I will!” and Tom drew on his gloves with the air of a man about to meet and conquer an enemy.
“Have an arm, sir? If you don't mind I'll walk down with you. Little commission for mother, nice day, is n't it?”
Tom rather broke down at the end of his speech, for the look of pleased surprise with which his father greeted him, the alacrity with which he accepted and leaned on the strong arm offered him, proved that the daily walks had been solitary and doubtless sad ones. I think Mr. Shaw understood the real meaning of that little act of respect, and felt better for the hopeful change it seemed to foretell. But he took it quietly, and leaving his face to speak for him, merely said, “Thanky, Tom; yes, mother will enjoy her dinner twice as much if you order it.”
Then they began to talk business with all their might, as if they feared that some trace of sentiment might disgrace their masculine dignity. But it made no difference whether they discussed lawsuits or love, mortgages or mothers, the feeling was all right and they knew it, so Mr. Shaw walked straighter than usual, and Tom felt that he was in his proper place again. The walk was not without its trials, however; for while it did Tom's heart good to see the cordial respect paid to his father, it tried his patience sorely to see also inquisitive or disapproving glances fixed upon himself when hats were lifted to his father, and to hear the hearty “Good day, Mr. Shaw,” drop into a cool or careless, “That's the son; it's hard on him. Wild fellow, do him good.”
“Granted; but you need n't hit a man when he's down,” muttered Tom to himself, feeling every moment a stronger desire to do something that should silence everybody. “I'd cut away to Australia if it was n't for mother; anything, anywhere to get out of the way of people who know me. I never can right myself here, with all the fellows watching, and laying wagers whether I sink or swim. Hang Greek and Latin! wish I'd learned a trade, and had something to fall back upon. Have n't a blessed thing now, but decent French and my fists. Wonder if old Bell don't want a clerk for the Paris branch of the business? That would n't be bad; faith, I'll try it.”
And when Tom had landed his father safely at the office, to the great edification of all beholders, he screwed up his courage, and went to prefer his request, feeling that the prospect brightened a little. But Mr. Bell was not in a good humor, and only gave Tom a severe lecture on the error of his ways, which sent him home much depressed, and caused the horizon to lower again.
As he roamed about the house that afternoon, trying to calculate how much an Australian outfit would cost, the sound of lively voices and clattering spoons attracted him to the kitchen. There he found Polly giving Maud lessons in cookery; for the “new help” not being a high-priced article, could not be depended on for desserts, and Mrs. Shaw would have felt as if the wolf was at the door if there was not “a sweet dish” at dinner. Maud had a genius for cooking, and Fanny hated it, so that little person was in her glory, studying receipt books, and taking lessons whenever Polly could give them.
“Gracious me, Tom, don't come now; we are awful busy! Men don't belong in kitchens,” cried Maud, as her brother appeared in the doorway.
“Could n't think what you were about. Mum is asleep, and Fan out, so I loafed down to see if there was any fun afoot,” said Tom, lingering, as if the prospect was agreeable. He was a social fellow, and very grateful just then to any one who helped him to forget his worries for a time. Polly knew this, felt that his society would not be a great affliction to herself at least, and whispering to Maud, “He won't know,” she added, aloud, “Come in if you like, and stir this cake for me; it needs a strong hand, and mine are tired. There, put on that apron to keep you tidy, sit here, and take it easy.”
“I used to help grandma bat up cake, and rather liked it, if I remember right,” said Tom, letting Polly tie a checked apron on him, put a big bowl into his hands, and settle him near the table, where Maud was picking raisins, and she herself stirring busily about among spice-boxes, rolling-pins, and butter-pots.
“You do it beautifully, Tom. I'll give you a conundrum to lighten your labor: Why are bad boys like cake?” asked Polly, anxious to cheer him up.
“Because a good beating makes them better. I doubt that myself, though,” answered Tom, nearly knocking the bottom of the bowl out with his energetic demonstrations, for it really was a relief to do something.
“Bright boy! here's a plum for you,” and Polly threw a plump raisin into his mouth.
“Put in lots, won't you? I'm rather fond of plum-cake,” observed Tom, likening himself to Hercules with the distaff, and finding his employment pleasant, if not classical.
“I always do, if I can; there's nothing I like better than to shovel in sugar and spice, and make nice, plummy cake for people. It's one of the few things I have a gift for.”
“You've hit it this time, Polly; you certainly have a gift for putting a good deal of both articles into your own and other people's lives, which is lucky, as, we all have to eat that sort of cake, whether we like it or not,” observed Tom, so soberly that Polly opened her eyes, and Maud exclaimed, “I do believe he's preaching.”
“Feel as if I could sometimes,” continued Tom; then his eye fell upon the dimples in Polly's elbows, and he added, with a laugh, “That's more in your line, ma'am; can't you give us a sermon?”
“A short one. Life, my brethren, is like plum-cake,” began Polly, impressively folding her floury hands. “In some the plums are all on the top, and we eat them gayly, till we suddenly find they are gone. In others the plums sink to the bottom, and we look for them in vain as we go on, and often come to them when it is too late to enjoy them. But in the well-made cake, the plums are wisely scattered all through, and every mouthful is a pleasure. We make our own cakes, in a great measure, therefore let us look to it, my brethren, that they are mixed according to the best receipt, baked in a well regulated oven, and gratefully eaten with a temperate appetite.”
“Good! good!” cried Tom, applauding with the wooden spoon. “That's a model sermon, Polly, short, sweet, sensible, and not a bit sleepy. I'm one of your parish, and will see that you get your'celery punctooal,' as old Deacon Morse used to say.”
“'Thank you, brother, my wants is few, and ravens scurser than they used to be,' as dear old Parson Miller used to answer. Now, Maud, bring on the citron;” and Polly began to put the cake together in what seemed a most careless and chaotic manner, while Tom and Maud watched with absorbing interest till it was safely in the oven.
“Now make your custards, dear; Tom may like to beat the eggs for you; it seems to have a good effect upon his constitution.”
“First-rate; hand'em along,” and Tom smoothed his apron with a cheerful air. “By the way, Syd's got back. I met him yesterday, and he treated me like a man and a brother,” he added, as if anxious to contribute to the pleasures of the hour.
“I'm so glad!” cried Polly, clapping her hands, regardless of the egg she held, which dropped and smashed on the floor at her feet. “Careless thing! Pick it up, Maud, I'll get some more;” and Polly whisked out of the room, glad of an excuse to run and tell Fan, who had just come in, lest, hearing the news in public, she might be startled out of the well-bred composure with which young ladies are expected to receive tidings, even of the most vital importance.
“You know all about history, don't you?” asked Maud, suddenly.
“Not quite,” modestly answered Tom.
“I just want to know if there really was a man named Sir Philip, in the time of Queen Elizabeth.”
“You mean Sir Philip Sidney? Yes, he lived then and a fine old fellow he was too.”
“There; I knew the girls did n't mean him,” cried Maud, with a chop that sent the citron flying.
“What mischief are you up to now, you little magpie?”
“I shan't tell you what they said, because I don't remember much of it; but I heard Polly and Fan talking about some one dreadful mysterious, and when I asked who it was, Fan said, 'Sir Philip.' Ho! she need n't think I believe it! I saw'em laugh, and blush, and poke one another, and I knew it was n't about any old Queen Elizabeth man,” cried Maud, turning up her nose as far as that somewhat limited feature would go.
“Look here, you are letting cats out of the bag. Never mind, I thought so. They don't tell us their secrets, but we are so sharp, we can't help finding them out, can we?” said Tom, looking so much interested, that Maud could n't resist airing her knowledge a little.
“Well, I dare say, it is n't proper for you to know, but I am old enough now to be told anything, and those girls better mind what they say, for I 'm not a stupid chit, like Blanche. I just wish you could have heard them go on. I'm sure there's something very nice about Mr. Sydney, they looked so pleased when they whispered and giggled on the bed, and thought I was ripping bonnets, and did n't hear a word.”
“Which looked most pleased?” asked Tom, investigating the kitchen boiler with deep interest.
“Well, 'pears to me Polly did; she talked most, and looked funny and very happy all the time. Fan laughed a good deal, but I guess Polly is the loveress,” replied Maud, after a moment's reflection.
“Hold your tongue; she's coming!” and Tom began to pump as if the house was on fire.
Down came Polly, with heightened color, bright eyes, and not a single egg. Tom took a quick look at her over his shoulder, and paused as if the fire was suddenly extinguished. Something in his face made Polly feel a little guilty, so she fell to grating nutmeg, with a vigor which made red cheeks the most natural thing in life. Maud, the traitor, sat demurely at work, looking very like what Tom had called her, a magpie with mischief in its head. Polly felt a change in the atmosphere, but merely thought Tom was tired, so she graciously dismissed him with a stick of cinnamon, as she had nothing else just then to lay upon the shrine. “Fan's got the books and maps you wanted. Go and rest now. I'm much obliged; here's your wages, Bridget.”
“Good luck to your messes,” answered Tom, as he walked away meditatively crunching his cinnamon, and looking as if he did not find it as spicy as usual. He got his books, but did not read them; for, shutting himself up in the little room called “Tom's den,” he just sat down and brooded.
When he came down to breakfast the next morning, he was greeted with a general “Happy birthday, Tom!” and at his place lay gifts from every member of the family; not as costly as formerly, perhaps, but infinitely dearer, as tokens of the love that had outlived the change, and only grown the warmer for the test of misfortune. In his present state of mind, Tom felt as if he did not deserve a blessed thing; so when every one exerted themselves to make it a happy day for him, he understood what it means “to be nearly killed with kindness,” and sternly resolved to be an honor to his family, or perish in the attempt. Evening brought Polly to what she called a “festive tea,” and when they gathered round the table, another gift appeared, which, though not of a sentimental nature, touched Tom more than all the rest. It was a most delectable cake, with a nosegay atop, and round it on the snowy frosting there ran a pink inscription, just as it had been every year since Tom could remember.
“Name, age, and date, like a nice white tombstone,” observed Maud, complacently, at which funereal remark, Mrs. Shaw, who was down in honor of the day, dropped her napkin, and demanded her salts.
“Whose doing is that?” asked Tom, surveying the gift with satisfaction; for it recalled the happier birthdays, which seemed very far away now.
“I did n't know what to give you, for you've got everything a man wants, and I was in despair till I remembered that dear grandma always made you a little cake like that, and that you once said it would n't be a happy birthday without it. So I tried to make it just like hers, and I do hope it will prove a good, sweet, plummy one.”
“Thank you,” was all Tom said, as he smiled at the giver, but Polly knew that her present had pleased him more than the most elegant trifle she could have made.
“It ought to be good, for you beat it up yourself, Tom,” cried, Maud. “It was so funny to see you working away, and never guessing who the cake was for. I perfectly trembled every time you opened your mouth, for fear you 'd ask some question about it. That was the reason Polly preached and I kept talking when she was gone.”
“Very stupid of me; but I forgot all about to-day. Suppose we cut it; I don't seem to care for anything else,” said Tom, feeling no appetite, but bound to do justice to that cake, if he fell a victim to his gratitude.
“I hope the plums won't all be at the bottom,” said Polly, as she rose to do the honors of the cake, by universal appointment.
“I've had a good many at the top already, you know,” answered Tom, watching the operation with as much interest as if he had faith in the omen.
Cutting carefully, slice after slice fell apart; each firm and dark, spicy and rich, under the frosty rime above; and laying a specially large piece in one of grandma's quaint little china plates, Polly added the flowers and handed it to Tom, with a look that said a good deal, for, seeing that he remembered her sermon, she was glad to find that her allegory held good, in one sense at least. Tom's face brightened as he took it, and after an inspection which amused the others very much he looked up, saying, with an air of relief, “Plums all through; I'm glad I had a hand in it, but Polly deserves the credit, and must wear the posy,” and turning to her, he put the rose into her hair with more gallantry than taste, for a thorn pricked her head, the leaves tickled her ear, and the flower was upside down.
Fanny laughed at his want of skill, but Polly would n't have it altered, and everybody fell to eating cake, as if indigestion was one of the lost arts. They had a lively tea, and were getting on famously afterward, when two letters were brought for Tom, who glanced at one, and retired rather precipitately to his den, leaving Maud consumed with curiosity, and the older girls slightly excited, for Fan thought she recognized the handwriting on one, and Polly, on the other.
One half an hour and then another elapsed, and Tom did not return. Mr. Shaw went out, Mrs. Shaw retired to her room escorted by Maud, and the two girls sat together wondering if anything dreadful had happened. All of a sudden a voice called, “Polly!” and that young lady started out of her chair, as if the sound had been a thunder-clap.
“Do run! I'm perfectly fainting to know what the matter is,” said Fan.
“You'd better go,” began Polly, wishing to obey, yet feeling a little shy.
“He don't want me; besides, I could n't say a word for myself if that letter was from Sydney,” cried Fanny, hustling her friend towards the door, in a great flutter.
Polly went without another word, but she wore a curiously anxious look, and stopped on the threshold of the den, as if a little afraid of its occupant. Tom was sitting in his favorite attitude, astride of a chair, with his arms folded and his chin on the top rail; not an elegant posture, but the only one in which, he said, he could think well.
“Did you want me, Tom?”
“Yes. Come in, please, and don't look scared; I only want to show you a present I've had, and ask your advice about accepting it.”
“Why, Tom, you look as if you had been knocked down!” exclaimed Polly, forgetting all about herself, as she saw his face when he rose and turned to meet her.
“I have; regularly floored; but I'm up again, and steadier than ever. Just you read that, and tell me what you think of it.”
Tom snatched a letter off the table, put it into her hands, and began to walk up and down the little room, like a veritable bear in its cage. As Polly read that short note, all the color went out of her face, and her eyes began to kindle. When she came to the end, she stood a minute, as if too indignant to speak, then gave the paper a nervous sort of crumple and dropped it on the floor, saying, all in one breath, “I think she is a mercenary, heartless, ungrateful girl! That's what I think.”
“Oh, the deuce! I did n't mean to show that one; it's the other.” And Tom took up a second paper, looking half angry, half ashamed at his own mistake. “I don't care, though; every one will know to-morrow; and perhaps you'll be good enough to keep the girls from bothering me with questions and gabble,” he added, as if, on second thoughts, he was relieved to have the communication made to Polly first.
“I don't wonder you looked upset. If the other letter is as bad, I'd better have a chair before I read it,” said Polly, feeling that she began to tremble with excitement.
“It's a million times better, but it knocked me worse than the other; kindness always does.” Tom stopped short there, and stood a minute turning the letter about in his hand as if it contained a sweet which neutralized the bitter in that smaller note, and touched him very much. Then he drew up an arm-chair, and beckoning Polly to take it, said in a sober, steady tone, that surprised her greatly, “Whenever I was in a quandary, I used to go and consult grandma, and she always had something sensible or comfortable to say to me. She's gone now, but somehow, Polly, you seem to take her place. Would you mind sitting in her chair, and letting me tell you two or three things, as Will does?”
Mind it? Polly felt that Tom had paid her the highest and most beautiful compliment he could have devised. She had often longed to do it, for, being brought up in the most affectionate and frank relations with her brothers, she had early learned what it takes most women some time to discover, that sex does not make nearly as much difference in hearts and souls as we fancy. Joy and sorrow, love and fear, life and death bring so many of the same needs to all, that the wonder is we do not understand each other better, but wait till times of tribulation teach us that human nature is very much the same in men and women. Thanks to this knowledge, Polly understood Tom in a way that surprised and won him. She knew that he wanted womanly sympathy, and that she could give it to him, because she was not afraid to stretch her hand across the barrier which our artificial education puts between boys and girls, and to say to him in all good faith, “If I can help you, let me.”
Ten minutes sooner Polly could have done this almost as easily to Tom as to Will, but in that ten minutes something had happened which made this difficult. Reading that Trix had given Tom back his freedom changed many things to Polly, and caused her to shrink from his confidence, because she felt as if it would be harder now to keep self out of sight; for, spite of maiden modesty, love and hope would wake and sing at the good news. Slowly she sat down, and hesitatingly she said, with her eyes on the ground, and a very humble voice, “I'll do my best, but I can't fill grandma's place, or give you any wise, good advice. I wish I could!”
“You'll do it better than any one else. Talk troubles mother, father has enough to think of without any of my worries. Fan is a good soul, but she is n't practical, and we always get into a snarl if we try to work together, so who have I but my other sister, Polly? The pleasure that letter will give you may make up for my boring you.”
As he spoke, Tom laid the other paper in her lap, and went off to the window, as if to leave her free to enjoy it unseen; but he could not help a glance now and then, and as Polly's face brightened, his own fell.
“Oh, Tom, that's a birthday present worth having, for it's so beautifully given I don't see how you can refuse it. Arthur Sydney is a real nobleman!” cried Polly, looking up at last, with her fact glowing, and her eyes full of delight.
“So he is! I don't know another man living, except father, who would have done such a thing, or who I could bring myself to take it from. Do you see, he's not only paid the confounded debts, but has done it in my name, to spare me all he could?”
“I see, it's like him; and I think he must be very happy to be able to do such a thing.”
“It is an immense weight off my shoulders, for some of those men could n't afford to wait till I'd begged, borrowed, or earned the money. Sydney can wait, but he won't long, if I know myself.” “You won't take it as a gift, then?”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“Then don't think I will. I'm a pretty poor affair, Polly, but I'm not mean enough to do that, while I've got a conscience and a pair of hands.”
A rough speech, but it pleased Polly better than the smoothest Tom had ever made in her hearing, for something in his face and voice told her that the friendly act had roused a nobler sentiment than gratitude, making the cancelled obligations of the boy, debts of honor to the man.
“What will you do, Tom?”
“I'll tell you; may I sit here?” And Tom took the low footstool that always stood near grandma's old chair. “I've had so many plans in my head lately, that sometimes it seems as if it would split,” continued the poor fellow, rubbing his tired forehead, as if to polish up his wits. “I've thought seriously of going to California, Australia, or some out-of-the-way place, where men get rich in a hurry.”
“Oh, no!” cried Polly, putting out her hand as it to keep him, and then snatching it back again before he could turn round.
“It would be hard on mother and the girls, I suppose; besides, I don't quite like it myself; looks as if I shirked and ran away.”
“So it does,” said Polly, decidedly.
“Well, you see I don't seem to find anything to do unless I turn clerk, and I don't think that would suit. The fact is, I could n't stand it here, where I'm known. It would be easier to scratch gravel on a railroad, with a gang of Paddies, than to sell pins to my friends and neighbors. False pride, I dare say, but it's the truth, and there's no use in dodging.”
“Not a bit, and I quite agree with you.”
“That's comfortable. Now I'm coming to the point where I specially want your advice, Polly. Yesterday I heard you telling Fan about your brother Ned; how well he got on; how he liked his business, and wanted Will to come and take some place near him. You thought I was reading, but I heard; and it struck me that perhaps I could get a chance out West somewhere. What do you think?”
“If you really mean work, I know you could,” answered Polly, quickly, as all sorts of plans and projects went sweeping through her mind. “I wish you could be with Ned; you'd get on together, I'm sure; and he'd be so glad to do anything he could. I'll write and ask, straight away, if you want me to.”
“Suppose you do; just for information, you know, then I shall have something to go upon. I want to have a feasible plan all ready, before I speak to father. There's nothing so convincing to business men as facts, you know.”
Polly could not help smiling at Tom's new tone, it seemed so strange to hear him talking about anything but horses and tailors, dancing and girls. She liked it, however, as much as she did the sober expression of his face, and the way he had lately of swinging his arms about, as if he wanted to do something energetic with them.
“That will be wise. Do you think your father will like this plan?”
“Pretty sure he will. Yesterday, when I told him I must go at something right off, he said, 'Anything honest, Tom, and don't forget that your father began the world as a shop-boy.' You knew that, did n't you?”
“Yes, he told me the story once, and I always liked to hear it, because it was pleasant to see how well he had succeeded.”
“I never did like the story, a little bit ashamed, I'm afraid; but when we talked it over last night, it struck me in a new light, and I understood why father took the failure so well, and seems so contented with this poorish place. It is only beginning again, he says; and having worked his way up once, he feels as if he could again. I declare to you, Polly, that sort of confidence in himself, and energy and courage in a man of his years, makes me love and respect the dear old gentleman as I never did before.”
“I'm so glad to hear you say that, Tom! I've sometimes thought you did n't quite appreciate your father, any more than he knew how much of a man you were.”
“Never was till to-day, you know,” said Tom, laughing, yet looking as if he felt the dignity of his one and twenty years. “Odd, is n't it, how people live together ever so long, and don't seem to find one another out, till something comes to do it for them. Perhaps this smash-up was sent to introduce me to my own father.”
“There's philosophy for you,” said Polly, smiling, even while she felt as if adversity was going to do more for Tom than years of prosperity.
They both sat quiet for a minute, Polly in the big chair looking at him with a new respect in her eyes, Tom on the stool near by slowly tearing up a folded paper he had absently taken from the floor while he talked.
“Did this surprise you?” he asked, as a little white shower fluttered from his hands.
“No.”
“Well, it did me; for you know as soon as we came to grief I offered to release Trix from the engagement, and she would n't let me,” continued Tom, as if, having begun the subject, he wished to explain it thoroughly.
“That surprised me,” said Polly.
“So it did me, for Fan always insisted it was the money and not the man she cared for. Her first answer pleased me very much, for I did not expect it, and nothing touches a fellow more than to have a woman stand by him through thick and thin.”
“She don't seem to have done it.”
“Fan was right. Trix only waited to see how bad things really were, or rather her mother did. She's as cool, hard, and worldly minded an old soul as I ever saw, and Trix is bound to obey. She gets round it very neatly in her note, 'I won't be a burden, ' 'will sacrifice her hopes,' 'and always remain my warm friend,' but the truth is, Tom Shaw rich was worth making much of, but Tom Shaw poor is in the way, and may go to the devil as fast as he likes.”
“Well, he is n't going!” cried Polly, defiantly, for her wrath burned hotly against Trix, though she blessed her for setting the bondman free.
“Came within an ace of it,” muttered Tom to himself; adding aloud, in a tone of calm resignation that assured Polly his heart would not be broken though his engagement was, “It never rains but it pours, 'specially in hard times, but when a man is down, a rap or two more don't matter much, I suppose. It's the first blow that hurts most.”
“Glad to see you take the last blow so well.” There was an ironical little twang to that speech, and Polly could n't help it. Tom colored up and looked hurt for a minute, then seemed to right himself with a shrug, and said, in his outspoken way, “To tell the honest truth, Polly, it was not a very hard one. I've had a feeling for some time that Trix and I were not suited to one another, and it might be wiser to stop short. But she did not or would not see it; and I was not going to back out, and leave her to wear any more willows, so here we are. I don't bear malice, but hope she 'll do better, and not be disappointed again, upon my word I do.”
“That's very good of you, quite Sydneyesque, and noble,” said Polly, feeling rather ill at ease, and wishing she could hide herself behind a cap and spectacles, if she was to play Grandma to this confiding youth.
“It will be all plain sailing for Syd, I fancy,” observed Tom, getting up as if the little cricket suddenly ceased to be comfortable.
“I hope so,” murmured Polly, wondering what was coming next.
“He deserves the very best of everything, and I pray the Lord he may get it,” added Tom, poking the fire in a destructive manner.
Polly made no answer, fearing to pay too much, for she knew Fan had made no confidant of Tom, and she guarded her friend's secret as jealously as her own. “You'll write to Ned to-morrow, will you? I'll take anything he 's got, for I want to be off,” said Tom, casting down the poker, and turning round with a resolute air which was lost on Polly, who sat twirling the rose that had fallen into her lap.
“I'll write to-night. Would you like me to tell the girls about Trix and Sydney?” she asked as she rose, feeling that the council was over.
“I wish you would. I don't know how to thank you for all you've done for me; I wish to heaven I did,” said Tom, holding out his hand with a look that Polly thought a great deal too grateful for the little she had done.
As she gave him her hand, and looked up at him with those confiding eyes of hers, Tom's gratitude seemed to fly to his head, for, without the slightest warning, he stooped down and kissed her, a proceeding which startled Polly so that he recovered himself at once, and retreated into his den with the incoherent apology, “I beg pardon could n't help it grandma always let me on my birthday.”
While Polly took refuge up stairs, forgetting all about Fan, as she sat in the dark with her face hidden, wondering why she was n't very angry, and resolving never again to indulge in the delightful but dangerous pastime of playing grandmother.