An Old-Fashioned Girl (8 page)

“He was awfully good, wasn’t he?”

“No, he wasn’t; but he tried to be, and mother says that is half the battle. We used to get tired of trying; but we kept making
resolutions, and working hard to keep ’em. I don’t think I got on much; but Jimmy did, and everyone loved him.”

“Didn’t you ever squabble, as we do?”

“Yes, indeed, sometimes; but we couldn’t stay mad, and always made it up again as soon as we could. Jimmy used to come round
first, and say, ’All serene, Polly,’ so kind and jolly, that I couldn’t help laughing and being friends right away.”

“Did he not know a lot?”

“Yes, I think he did, for he liked to study, and wanted to get on, so he could help father. People used to call him a fine
boy, and I felt so proud to hear it; but they didn’t know half how wise he was, because he didn’t show off a bit. I suppose
sisters always are grand of their brothers; but I don’t believe many girls had as much right to be as I had.”

“Most girls don’t care two pins about their brothers; so that shows you don’t know much about it.”

“Well, they ought to, if they don’t; and they would if the boys were as kind to them as Jimmy was to me.”

“Why, what did he do?”

“Loved me dearly, and wasn’t ashamed to show it,” cried Polly, with a sob in her voice, that made her answer very eloquent.

“What made him die, Polly?” asked Tom, soberly, after a little pause.

“He got hurt coasting, last winter; but he never told which boy did it, and he only lived a week. I helped take care of him;
and he was so patient, I used to wonder at him, for he was in dreadful pain all the time. He gave me his books, and his dog,
and his speckled hens, and his big knife, and said, ’Good-by, Polly’ — and kissed me the last thing — and then — O Jimmy!
Jimmy! If he only could come back!”

Poor Polly’s eyes had been getting fuller and fuller, her lips trembling more and more, as she went on; and when she came
to that “good-by,” she couldn’t get any further, but covered up her face, and cried as if her heart would break. Tom was full
of sympathy, but didn’t know how to show it; so he sat shaking up the camphor bottle, and trying to think of something proper
and comfortable to say, when Fanny came to the rescue, and cuddled Polly in her arms, with soothing little pats and whispers
and kisses, till the tears stopped, and Polly said, she “didn’t mean to, and wouldn’t any more. I’ve been thinking about my
dear boy all the evening, for Tom reminds me of him,” she added, with a sigh.

“Me? How can I, when I ain’t a bit like him?” cried Tom, amazed.

“But you are in some ways.”

“Wish I was; but I can’t be, for he was good, you know.”

“So are you, when you choose. Hasn’t he been good and patient, and don’t we all like to pet him when he’s clever, Fan?” said
Polly, whose heart was still aching for her brother, and ready for his sake to find virtues even in tormenting Tom.

“Yes; I don’t know the boy lately; but he’ll be as bad as ever when he’s well,” returned Fanny, who hadn’t much faith in sickbed
repentances.

“Much you know about it,” growled Tom, lying down again, for he had sat bolt upright when Polly made the astounding declaration
that
he
was like the well-beloved Jimmy. That simple little history had made a deep impression on Tom, and the tearful ending touched
the tender spot that most boys hide so carefully. It is very pleasant to be loved and admired, very sweet to think we shall
be missed and mourned when we die; and Tom was seized with a sudden desire to imitate this boy, who hadn’t done anything wonderful,
yet was so dear to his sister, that she cried for him a whole year after he was dead; so studious and clever, the people called
him “a fine fellow”; and so anxious to be good, that he kept on trying, till he was better even than Polly, whom Tom privately
considered a model of virtue, as girls go.

“I just wish I had a sister like you,” he broke out, all of a sudden.

“And I just wish I had a brother like Jim,” cried Fanny, for she felt the reproach in Tom’s words, and knew she deserved it.

“I shouldn’t think you’d envy anybody, for you’ve got one another,” said Polly, with such a wistful look, that it suddenly
set Tom and Fanny to wondering why they didn’t have better times together, and enjoy themselves, as Polly and Jim did.

“Fan don’t care for anybody but herself,” said Tom.

“Tom is such a bear,” retorted Fanny.

“I wouldn’t say such things, for if anything should happen to either of you, the other one would feel so sorry. Every cross
word I ever said to Jimmy comes back now, and makes me wish I hadn’t.”

Two great tears rolled down Polly’s cheeks, and were quietly wiped away; but I think they watered that sweet sentiment, called
fraternal love, which till now had been neglected in the hearts of this brother and sister. They didn’t say anything then,
or make any plans, or confess any faults; but when they parted for the night, Fanny gave the wounded head a gentle pat (Tom
never would have forgiven her if she had kissed him), and said, in a whisper, “I hope you’ll have a good sleep, Tommy, dear.”

And Tom nodded back at her, with a hearty “Same to you, Fan.”

That was all; but it meant a good deal for the voices were kind, and the eyes met full of that affection which makes words
of little consequence. Polly saw it; and though she didn’t know that she had made the sunshine, it shone back upon her so
pleasantly, that she fell happily asleep, though her Jimmy wasn’t there to say “good-night.”

A
fter being unusually good, children are apt to turn short round and refresh themselves by acting like Sancho. For a week after
Tom’s mishap, the young folks were quite angelic, so much so that grandma said she was afraid “something was going to happen
to them.” The dear old lady needn’t have felt anxious, for such excessive virtue doesn’t last long enough to lead to translation,
except with little prigs in the goody storybooks; and no sooner was Tom on his legs again, when the whole party went astray,
and much tribulation was the consequence.

It all began with “Polly’s stupidity,” as Fan said afterward. Just as Polly ran down to meet Mr. Shaw one evening, and was
helping him off with his coat, the bell rang, and a fine bouquet of hothouse flowers was left in Polly’s hands, for she never
could learn city ways, and opened the door herself.

“Hey! What’s this? My little Polly is beginning early, after all,” said Mr. Shaw, laughing, as he watched the girl’s face
dimple and flush, as she smelt the lovely nosegay, and glanced at a note half hidden in the heliotrope.

Now, if Polly hadn’t been “stupid,” as Fan said, she would have had her wits about her, and let it pass; but, you see, Polly
was an honest little soul, and it never occurred to her that there was any need of concealment, so she answered in her straightforward
way, “Oh, they ain’t for me, sir; they are for Fan; from Mr. Frank, I guess. She’ll be so pleased.”

“That puppy sends her things of this sort, does he?” And Mr. Shaw looked far from pleased as he pulled out the note, and coolly
opened it.

Polly had her doubts about Fan’s approval of that “sort of thing,” but dared not say a word, and stood thinking how she used
to show her father the funny valentines the boys sent her, and how they laughed over them together. But Mr. Shaw did not laugh
when he had read the sentimental verses accompanying the bouquet, and his face quite scared Polly, as he asked, angrily, “How
long has this nonsense been going on?”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t know. Fan doesn’t mean any harm. I wish I hadn’t said anything!” stammered Polly, remembering the promise
given to Fanny the day of the concert. She had forgotten all about it, and had become accustomed to see the “big boys,” as
she called Mr. Frank and his friends, with the girls on all occasions. Now, it suddenly occurred to her that Mr. Shaw didn’t
like such amusements, and had forbidden Fan to indulge in them. “Oh, dear! How mad she will be. Well, I can’t help it. Girls
shouldn’t have secrets from their fathers, then there wouldn’t be any fuss,” thought Polly, as she watched Mr. Shaw twist
up the pink note and poke it back among the flowers which he took from her, saying, shortly, “Send Fanny to me in the library.”

“Now you’ve done it, you stupid thing!” cried Fanny, both angry and dismayed, when Polly delivered the message.

“Why, what else
could
I do?” asked Polly, much disturbed.

“Let him think the bouquet was for you; then there’d have been no trouble.”

“But that would have been doing a lie, which is most as bad as telling one.”

“Don’t be a goose. You’ve got me into a scrape, and you ought to help me out.”

“I will if I can; but I won’t tell lies for anybody!” cried Polly, getting excited.

“Nobody wants you to. Just hold your tongue, and let me manage.”

“Then I’d better not go down,” began Polly, when a stern voice from below called, like Bluebeard, “Are you coming down?”

“Yes, sir,” answered a meek voice; and Fanny clutched Polly, whispering, “You
must
come; I’m frightened out of my wits when he speaks like that. Stand by me, Polly; there’s a dear.”

“I will,” whispered “sister Ann”; and down they went with fluttering hearts.

Mr. Shaw stood on the rug, looking rather grim; the bouquet lay on the table, and beside it a note directed to “Frank Moore,
Esq.,” in a very decided hand, with a fierce-looking flourish after the “Esq.” Pointing to this impressive epistle, Mr. Shaw
said, knitting his black eyebrows as he looked at Fanny, “I’m going to put a stop to this nonsense at once; and if I see any
more of it, I’ll send you to school in a Canadian convent.”

This awful threat quite took Polly’s breath away; but Fanny had heard it before, and having a temper of her own, said, pertly,
“I’m sure I haven’t done anything so very dreadful. I can’t help it if the boys send me philopena presents, as they do to
the other girls.”

“There was nothing about philopenas in the note. But that’s not the question. I forbid you to have anything to do with this
Moore. He’s not a boy, but a fast fellow, and I won’t have him about. You knew this, and yet disobeyed me.”

“I hardly ever see him,” began Fanny.

“Is that true?” asked Mr. Shaw, turning suddenly to Polly.

“Oh, please, sir, don’t ask me. I promised I wouldn’t — that is — Fanny will tell you,” cried Polly, quite red with distress
at the predicament she was in.

“No matter about your promise; tell me all you know of this absurd affair. It will do Fanny more good than harm.” And Mr.
Shaw sat down looking more amiable, for Polly’s dismay touched him.

“May I?” she whispered to Fanny.

“I don’t care,” answered Fan, looking both angry and ashamed, as she stood sullenly tying knots in her handkerchief.

So Polly told, with much reluctance and much questioning, all she knew of the walks, the lunches, the meetings, and the notes.
It wasn’t much, and evidently less serious than Mr. Shaw expected; for, as he listened, his eyebrows smoothed themselves out,
and more than once his lips twitched as if he wanted to laugh, for, after all, it
was
rather comical to see how the young people aped their elders, playing the new-fashioned game, quite unconscious of its real
beauty, power, and sacredness.

“Oh, please, sir, don’t blame Fan much, for she truly isn’t half as silly as Trix and the other girls. She wouldn’t go sleigh-riding,
though Mr. Frank teased, and she wanted to ever so much. She’s sorry, I know, and won’t forget what you say any more, if you’ll
forgive her this once,” cried Polly, very earnestly, when the foolish little story was told.

“I don’t see how I can help it, when you plead so well for her. Come here, Fan, and mind this one thing; drop all this nonsense,
and attend to your books, or off you go; and Canada is no joke in wintertime, let me tell you.”

As he spoke, Mr. Shaw stroked his sulky daughter’s cheek, hoping to see some sign of regret; but Fanny felt injured, and wouldn’t
show that she was sorry, so she only said, pettishly, “I suppose I can have my flowers, now the fuss is over.”

“They are going straight back where they came from, with a line from me, which will keep that puppy from ever sending you
any more.” Ringing the bell, Mr. Shaw despatched the unfortunate posy, and then turned to Polly, saying, kindly but gravely,
“Set this silly child of mine a good example, and do your best for her, won’t you?”

“Me? What can I do, sir?” asked Polly, looking ready, but quite ignorant how to begin.

“Make her as like yourself as possible, my dear; nothing would please me better. Now go, and let us hear no more of this folly.”

They went without a word, and Mr. Shaw heard no more of the affair; but poor Polly did, for Fan scolded her, till Polly thought
seriously of packing up and going home next day. I really haven’t the heart to relate the dreadful lectures she got, the snubs
she suffered, or the cold shoulders turned upon her for several days after this. Polly’s heart was full, but she told no one,
and bore her trouble silently, feeling her friend’s ingratitude and injustice deeply.

Tom found out what the matter was, and sided with Polly, which proceeding led to scrape number two.

“Where’s Fan?” asked the young gentleman, strolling into his sister’s room, where Polly lay on the sofa, trying to forget
her troubles in an interesting book.

“Downstairs, seeing company.”

“Why didn’t you go, too?”

“I don’t like Trix, and I don’t know her fine New York friends.”

“Don’t want to, neither, why don’t you say?”

“Not polite.”

“Who cares? I say, Polly, come and have some fun.”

“I’d rather read.”

“That isn’t polite.”

Polly laughed, and turned a page. Tom whistled a minute, then sighed deeply, and put his hand to his forehead, which the black
plaster still adorned.

“Does your head ache?” asked Polly.

“Awfully.”

“Better lie down, then.”

“Can’t; I’m fidgety, and want to be amoosed, as Pug says.”