An Old-Fashioned Girl (20 page)

“Do you sew?” asked Jenny.

“No, I’m a music teacher, and trot round giving lessons all day.”

“How beautiful it sounds, and how happy you must be, so strong and pretty, and able to go round making music all the time,”
sighed Jenny, looking with respectful admiration at the plump, firm hand held in both her thin and feeble ones.

It did sound pleasant even to Polly’s ears, and she felt suddenly so rich, and so contented, that she seemed a different creature
from the silly girl who cried because she couldn’t go to the party. It passed through her mind like a flash, the contrast
between her life, and that of the wan creature lying before her, and she felt as if she could not give enough out of her abundance
to this needy little sister, who had nothing in the wide world but the life just saved to her. That minute did more for Polly
than many sermons, or the wisest books, for it brought her face to face with bitter truths, showed her the dark side of life,
and seemed to blow away her little vanities, her frivolous desires, like a wintry wind, that left a wholesome atmosphere behind.
Sitting on the bedside, Polly listened while Jane told the story, which was so new to her listener, that every word sank deep
into her heart, and never was forgotten.

“Now you must go to sleep. Don’t cry nor think, nor do anything but rest. That will please Miss Mills best. I’ll leave the
doors open, and play you a lullaby that you can’t resist. Good night, dear.” And with another kiss, Polly went away to sit
in the darkness of her own room, playing her softest airs till the tired eyes below were shut, and little Jane seemed to float
away on a sea of pleasant sounds, into the happier life which had just dawned for her.

Polly had fully intended to be very miserable, and cry herself to sleep; but when she lay down at last, her pillow seemed
very soft, her little room very lovely, with the fire-light flickering on all the homelike objects, and her new-blown roses
breathing her a sweet good-night. She no longer felt an injured, hardworking, unhappy Polly, but as if quite burdened with
blessings, for which she wasn’t half grateful enough. She had heard of poverty and suffering, in the vague far-off way, which
is all that many girls, safe in happy homes, ever know of it; but now she had seen it, in a shape which she could feel and
understand, and life grew more earnest to her from that minute. So much to do in the great, busy world, and she had done so
little. Where should she begin? Then, like an answer came little Jenny’s words, now taking a new significance to Polly’s mind,
“To be strong, and beautiful, and go round making music all the time.” Yes, she could do that; and with a very earnest prayer,
Polly asked for the strength of an upright soul, the beauty of a tender heart, the power to make her life a sweet and stirring
song, helpful while it lasted, remembered when it died.

Little Jane’s last thought had been to wish with all her might, that “God would bless the dear, kind girl up there, and give
her all she asked.” I think both prayers, although too humble to be put in words, went up together, for in the fulness of
time they were beautifully answered.

P
olly’s happiest day was Sunday, for Will never failed to spend it with her. Instead of sleeping later than usual that morning,
she was always up bright and early, flying round to get ready for her guest, for Will came to breakfast, and they made a long
day of it. Will considered his sister the best and prettiest girl going, and Polly, knowing well that a time would come when
he would find a better and a prettier, was grateful for his good opinion, and tried to deserve it. So she made her room and
herself as neat and inviting as possible, and always ran to meet him with a bright face and a motherly greeting, when he came
tramping in, ruddy, brisk, and beaming, with the brown loaf and the little pot of beans from the bake-house nearby.

They liked a good country breakfast, and nothing gave Polly more satisfaction than to see her big boy clear the dishes, empty
the little coffeepot, and then sit and laugh at her across the ravaged table. Another pleasure was to let him help clear away,
as they used to do at home, while the peals of laughter that always accompanied this performance did Miss Mills’ heart good
to hear, for the room was so small and Will so big that he seemed to be everywhere at once, and Polly and Puttel were continually
dodging his long arms and legs. Then they used to inspect the flowerpots, pay Nick a visit, and have a little music as a good
beginning for the day, after which they went to church and dined with Miss Mills, who considered Will “an excellent young
man.” If the afternoon was fair, they took a long walk together over the bridges into the country, or about the city streets
full of Sabbath quietude. Most people meeting them would have seen only an awkward young man, with a boy’s face atop of his
tall body, and a quietly dressed, fresh-faced little woman hanging on his arm; but a few people, with eyes to read romances
and pleasant histories everywhere, found something very attractive in this couple, and smiled as they passed, wondering if
they were young lovers, or country cousins “looking round.”

If the day was stormy, they stayed at home, reading, writing letters, talking over their affairs, and giving each other good
advice; for, though Will was nearly three years younger than Polly, he couldn’t for the life of him help assuming amusingly
venerable airs, when he became a Freshman. In the twilight he had a good lounge on the sofa, and Polly sung to him, which
arrangement he particularly enjoyed, it was so “cosy and homey.” At nine o’clock, Polly packed his bag with clean clothes,
nicely mended, such remnants of the festive tea as were transportable, and kissed him “good-night,” with many injunctions
to muffle up his throat going over the bridge, and be sure that his feet were dry and warm when he went to bed. All of which
Will laughed at, accepted graciously, and didn’t obey; but he liked it, and trudged away for another week’s work, rested,
cheered, and strengthened by that quiet, happy day with Polly, for he had been brought up to believe in home influences, and
this brother and sister loved one another dearly, and were not ashamed to own it.

One other person enjoyed the humble pleasures of these Sundays quite as much as Polly and Will. Maud used to beg to come to
tea, and Polly, glad to do anything for those who had done a good deal for her, made a point of calling for the little girl
as they came home from their walk, or sending Will to escort her in the carriage, which Maud always managed to secure if bad
weather threatened to quench her hopes. Tom and Fanny laughed at her fancy, but she did not tire of it, for the child was
lonely, and found something in that little room which the great house could not give her.

Maud was twelve now; a pale, plain child, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and a busy little mind, that did a good deal more
thinking than anybody imagined. She was just at the unattractive, fidgety age when no one knew what to do with her, and so
let her fumble her way up as she could, finding pleasure in odd things, and living much alone, for she did not go to school,
because her shoulders were growing round, and Mrs. Shaw would not “allow her figure to be spoiled.” That suited Maud excellently;
and whenever her father spoke of sending her again, or getting a governess, she was seized with bad headaches, a pain in her
back, or weakness of the eyes, at which Mr. Shaw laughed, but let her holiday go on. Nobody seemed to care much for plain,
pug-nosed little Maudie; her father was busy, her mother nervous and sick, Fanny absorbed in her own affairs, and Tom regarded
her as most young men do their younger sisters, as a person born for his amusement and convenience, nothing more. Maud admired
Tom with all her heart, and made a little slave of herself to him, feeling well repaid if he merely said, “Thank you, chicken,”
or didn’t pinch her nose, or nip her ear, as he had a way of doing, “Just as if I was a doll, or a dog, and hadn’t got any
feelings,” she sometimes said to Fanny, when some service or sacrifice had been accepted without gratitude or respect. It
never occurred to Tom, when Maud sat watching him with her face full of wistfulness, that she wanted to be petted as much
as ever he did in his neglected boyhood, or that when he called her “Pug” before people, her little feelings were as deeply
wounded as his used to be, when the boys called him “Carrots.” He was fond of her in his fashion, but he didn’t take the trouble
to show it, so Maud worshipped him afar off, afraid to betray the affection that no rebuff could kill or cool.

One snowy Sunday afternoon Tom lay on the sofa in his favorite attitude, reading “Pendennis” for the fourth time, and smoking
like a chimney as he did so. Maud stood at the window watching the falling flakes with an anxious countenance, and presently
a great sigh broke from her.

“Don’t do that again, chicken, or you’ll blow me away. What’s the matter?” asked Tom, throwing down his book with a yawn that
threatened dislocation.

“I’m afraid I can’t go to Polly’s,” answered Maud, disconsolately.

“Of course you can’t; it’s snowing hard, and father won’t be home with the carriage till this evening. What are you always
cutting off to Polly’s for?”

“I like it; we have such nice times, and Will is there, and we bake little johnny-cakes in the baker before the fire, and
they sing, and it is
so
pleasant.”

“Warbling johnny-cakes must be interesting. Come and tell me all about it.”

“No, you’ll only laugh at me.”

“I give you my word I won’t, if I can help it; but I really am dying of curiosity to know what you do down there. You like
to hear secrets, so tell me yours, and I’ll be as dumb as an oyster.”

“It isn’t a secret, and you wouldn’t care for it. Do you want another pillow?” she added, as Tom gave his a thump.

“This will do; but why you women always stick tassels and fringe all over a sofa-cushion, to tease and tickle a fellow, is
what I don’t understand.”

“One thing that Polly does Sunday nights, is to take Will’s head in her lap, and smooth his forehead. It rests him after studying
so hard, she says. If you don’t like the pillow, I could do that for you, ’cause you look as if you were more tired of studying
than Will,” said Maud, with some hesitation, but an evident desire to be useful and agreeable.

“Well, I don’t care if you do try it, for I
am
confoundedly tired.” And Tom laughed, as he recalled the frolic he had been on the night before.

Maud established herself with great satisfaction, and Tom owned that a silk apron
was
nicer than a fussy cushion.

“Do you like it?” she asked, after a few strokes over the hot forehead, which she thought was fevered by intense application
to Greek and Latin.

“Not bad; play away,” was the gracious reply, as Tom shut his eyes, and lay so still that Maud was charmed at the success
of her attempt. Presently, she said, softly —

“Tom, are you asleep?”

“Just turning the corner.”

“Before you get quite round would you please tell me what a Public Admonition is?”

“What do you want to know for?” demanded Tom, opening his eyes very wide.

“I heard Will talking about Publics and Privates, and I meant to ask him, but I forgot.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t remember; it was about somebody who cut prayers, and got a Private, and had done all sorts of bad things, and had
one or two Publics. I didn’t hear the name and didn’t care; I only wanted to know what the words meant.”

“So Will tells tales, does he?” and Tom’s forehead wrinkled with a frown.

“No, he didn’t; Polly knew about it and asked him.”

“Will’s a ‘dig,’” growled Tom, shutting his eyes again, as if nothing more could be said of the delinquent William.

“I don’t care if he is; I like him very much, and so does Polly.”

“Happy Fresh!” said Tom, with a comical groan.

“You needn’t sniff at him, for he
is
nice, and treats me with respect,” cried Maud, with an energy that made Tom laugh in her face.

“He’s good to Polly always, and puts on her cloak for her, and says ‘my dear,’ and kisses her ‘goodnight,’ and don’t think
it’s silly, and I wish I had a brother just like him, yes, I do!” And Maud showed signs of woe, for her disappointment about
going was very great.

“Bless my boots! What’s the chicken ruffling up her little feathers and pecking at me for? Is that the way Polly soothes the
best of brothers?” said Tom, still laughing.

“Oh, I forgot! There, I won’t cry; but I do want to go,” and Maud swallowed her tears, and began to stroke again.

Now Tom’s horse and sleigh were in the stable, for he meant to drive out to College that evening, but he didn’t take Maud’s
hint. It was less trouble to lie still, and say in a conciliatory tone —

“Tell me some more about this good boy, it’s very interesting.”

“No, I shan’t, but I’ll tell about Puttel’s playing on the piano,” said Maud, anxious to efface the memory of her momentary
weakness. “Polly points to the right key with a little stick, and Puttel sits on the stool and pats each key as it’s touched,
and it makes a tune. It’s so funny to see her, and Nick perches on the rack and sings as if he’d kill himself.”

“Very thrilling,” said Tom, in a sleepy tone.

Maud felt that her conversation was not as interesting as she hoped, and tried again.

“Polly thinks you are handsomer than Mr. Sydney.”

“Much obliged.”

“I asked which she thought had the nicest face, and she said yours was the handsomest, and his the best.”

“Does he ever go there?” asked a sharp voice behind them; and looking round Maud saw Fanny in the big chair, cooking her feet
over the register.

“I never saw him there; he sent up some books one day, and Will teased her about it.”

“What did she do?” demanded Fanny.

“Oh, she shook him.”

“What a spectacle!” and Tom looked as if he would have enjoyed seeing it, but Fanny’s face grew so forbidding, that Tom’s
little dog, who was approaching to welcome her, put his tail between his legs and fled under the table.