An Old-Fashioned Girl (35 page)

“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 needn’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 wasn’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. Haven’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 wouldn’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.

“Couldn’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 anyone 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 didn’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 someone dreadful
mysterious, and when I asked who it was, Fan said, ‘Sir Philip.’ Ho! She needn’t think I believe it! I saw ’em laugh, and
blush, and poke one another, and I
knew
it wasn’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 couldn’t resist airing her
knowledge a little.

“Well, I dare say, it isn’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 didn’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 everyone 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 didn’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 wouldn’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 today. 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 wouldn’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 thunderclap.