An Old-Fashioned Girl (34 page)

“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 rung 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 wasn’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 haven’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.

“Didn’t your mother ever let you wear the nice things that came?” asked Maud.

“No; she thought it wasn’t the thing for a poor minister’s girls to go flourishing about in secondhand 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 didn’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 receiyed 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 needn’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 needn’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 anyone 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 didn’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 mat 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 didn’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, isn’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 —