An Old-Fashioned Girl (29 page)

“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 chimneypiece, which was hung so that it reflected the faces
of those about the fire. In it Polly saw a pair of tell-tale 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 shouldn’t dare to say ‘Syd,’ as his sister
does. I like short, plain, homelike 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 hasn’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 doesn’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 wouldn’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 needn’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 hid 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, didn’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, hardworking 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 everyone. 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 wasn’t Trix.

When Saturday came, Polly started as usual for a visit to Beck and Bess, but couldn’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 mustn’t follow me. Oh, Nep, it’s
so
hard to put love away when you want it very much, and it isn’t right to take it.”

A foolish little speech to make to a dog; but you see Polly was only a tenderhearted 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 snowdrops, hyacinths, and daffodils on the banks, whence
the snow had melted. But somehow the babies didn’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.