An Old-Fashioned Girl (30 page)

“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 couldn’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 schoolboy was parting from a rosy-faced schoolgirl, 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 hadn’t the heart to be stiff and cool, as she had fully intended
to be when they met.

“Very warm, isn’t it?” he sad, 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 couldn’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 didn’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 wouldn’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 coxcomb, 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 didn’t like it, and tried to show she didn’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, wouldn’t you go the old way and enjoy it as much as ever, if I wasn’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
passée,
and I shouldn’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
wouldn’t pass, and hastened to hide the failure by saying, with a laugh, “If you call Trix
passée
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 ‘didn’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 couldn’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, hasn’t he proposed?”

“No, he hasn’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 didn’t love them?”

“Yes.”

“And you girls said it wasn’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 didn’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 didn’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 wouldn’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.