AFTER 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 need
n't have felt anxious, for such excessive virtue does n't last long
enough to lead to translation, except with little prigs in the goody
story-books; 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 had n'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 does n't mean any harm. I wish I had n'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 did n'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 should n't have secrets from their fathers, then there would n'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 have
n'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 would n'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 was n'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 is n't half as
silly as Trix and the other, girls. She would n'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 winter time, 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 would n'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 have n'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.
“Down stairs, seeing company.”
“Why did n'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 is n'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.”
“Just wait till I finish my chapter, and then I'll come,” said pitiful
Polly.
“All right,” returned the perjured boy, who had discovered that a broken
head was sometimes more useful than a whole one, and exulting in his
base stratagem, he roved about the room, till Fan's bureau arrested him.
It was covered with all sorts of finery, for she had dressed in a hurry,
and left everything topsy-turvy. A well-conducted boy would have let
things alone, or a moral brother would have put things to rights; being
neither, Tom rummaged to his hearts content, till Fan's drawers looked
as if some one had been making hay in them. He tried the effect of
ear-rings, ribbons, and collars; wound up the watch, though it was n't
time; burnt his inquisitive nose with smelling-salts; deluged his grimy
handkerchief with Fan's best cologne; anointed his curly crop with her
hair-oil; powdered his face with her violet-powder; and finished off
by pinning on a bunch of false ringlets, which Fanny tried, to keep a
profound secret. The ravages committed by this bad boy are beyond
the power of language to describe, as he revelled in the interesting
drawers, boxes, and cases, which held his sister's treasures.
When the curls had been put on, with much pricking of fingers, and a
blue ribbon added, la Fan, he surveyed himself with satisfaction, and
considered the effect so fine, that he was inspired to try a still
greater metamorphosis. The dress Fan had taken off lay on a chair,
and into it got Tom, chuckling with suppressed laughter, for Polly
was absorbed, and the bed-curtains hid his iniquity. Fan's best velvet
jacket and hat, ermine muff, and a sofa-pillow for pannier, finished off
the costume, and tripping along with elbows out, Tom appeared before
the amazed Polly just as the chapter ended. She enjoyed the joke so
heartily, that Tom forgot consequences, and proposed going down into the
parlor to surprise, the girls.
“Goodness, no! Fanny never would forgive us if you showed her curls and
things to those people. There are gentlemen among them, and it would n't
be proper,” said Polly, alarmed at the idea.
“All the more fun. Fan has n't treated you well, and it will serve her
right if you introduce me as your dear friend, Miss Shaw. Come on, it
will be a jolly lark.”
“I would n't for the world; it would be so mean. Take'em off, Tom, and
I'll play anything else you like.”
“I ain't going to dress up for nothing; I look so lovely, someone must
admire me. Take me down, Polly, and see if they don't call me'a sweet
creature.'”
Tom looked so unutterably ridiculous as he tossed his curls and pranced,
that Polly went off into another gale of merriment; but even while she
laughed, she resolved not to let him mortify his sister.
“Now, then, get out of the way if you won't come; I'm going down,” said
Tom.
“No, you're not.”
“How will you help it, Miss Prim?”
“So.” And Polly locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and nodded
at him defiantly.
Tom was a pepper-pot as to temper, and anything like opposition always
had a bad effect. Forgetting his costume, he strode up to Polly, saying,
with a threatening wag of the head, “None of that. I won't stand it.”
“Promise not to plague Fan, and I'll let you out.”
“Won't promise anything. Give me that key, or I'll make you.”
“Now, Tom, don't be savage. I only want to keep you out of a scrape, for
Fan will be raging if you go. Take off her things, and I'll give up.”
Tom vouchsafed no reply, but marched to the other door, which was fast,
as Polly knew, looked out of the three-story window, and finding no
escape possible, came back with a wrathful face. “Will you give me that
key?”
“No, I won't,” said Polly, valiantly.
“I'm stronger than you are; so you'd better hand over.”
“I know you are; but it's cowardly for a great boy like you to rob a
girl.”
“I don't want to hurt you; but, by George! I won't stand this!”
Tom paused as Polly spoke, evidently ashamed of himself; but his temper
was up, and he would n't give in. If Polly had cried a little just
here, he would have yielded; unfortunately she giggled, for Tom's fierce
attitude was such a funny contrast to his dress that she could n't help
it. That settled the matter. No girl that ever lived should giggle at
him, much less lock him up like a small child. Without a word, he made
a grab at Polly's arm, for the hand holding the key was still in her,
pocket. With her other hand she clutched her frock, and for a minute
held on stoutly. But Tom's strong fingers were irresistible; rip went
the pocket, out came the hand, and with a cry of pain from Polly, the
key fell on the floor.
“It's your own fault if you're hurt. I did n't mean to,” muttered Tom,
as he hastily departed, leaving Polly to groan over her sprained wrist.
He went down, but not into the parlor, for somehow the joke seemed to
have lost its relish; so he made the girls in the kitchen laugh, and
then crept up the back way, hoping to make it all right with Polly. But
she had gone to grandma's room, for, though the old lady was out, it
seemed a refuge. He had just time to get things in order, when Fanny
came up, crosser than ever; for Trix had been telling her of all sorts
of fun in which she might have had a share, if Polly had held her
tongue.
“Where is she?” asked Fan, wishing to vent her vexation on her friend.
“Moping in her room, I suppose,” replied Tom, who was discovered reading
studiously.
Now, while this had been happening, Maud had been getting into hot
water also; for when her maid left her, to see a friend below, Miss Maud
paraded into Polly's room, and solaced herself with mischief. In an evil
hour Polly had let her play boat in her big trunk, which stood empty.
Since then Polly had stored some of her most private treasures in the
upper tray, so that she might feel sure they were safe from all eyes.
She had forgotten to lock the trunk, and when Maud raised the lid to
begin her voyage, several objects of interest met her eyes. She was deep
in her researches when Fan came in and looked over her shoulder, feeling
too cross with Polly to chide Maud.
As Polly had no money for presents, she had exerted her ingenuity
to devise all sorts of gifts, hoping by quantity to atone for any
shortcomings in quality. Some of her attempts were successful, others
were failures; but she kept them all, fine or funny, knowing the
children at home would enjoy anything new. Some of Maud's cast-off toys
had been neatly mended for Kitty; some of Fan's old ribbons and laces
were converted into dolls' finery; and Tom's little figures, whittled
out of wood in idle minutes, were laid away to show Will what could be
done with a knife.
“What rubbish!” said Fanny.
“Queer girl, is n't she?” added Tom, who had followed to see what was
going on.
“Don't you laugh at Polly's things. She makes nicer dolls than you, Fan;
and she can wite and dwar ever so much better than Tom,” cried Maud.
“How do you know? I never saw her draw,” said Tom.
“Here's a book with lots of pictures in it. I can't wead the witing;
but the pictures are so funny.”
Eager to display her friend's accomplishments, Maud pulled out a fat
little book, marked “Polly's Journal,” and spread it in her lap.
“Only the pictures; no harm in taking a look at'em,” said Tom.
“Just one peep,” answered Fanny; and the next minute both were laughing
at a droll sketch of Tom in the gutter, with the big dog howling over
him, and the velocipede running away. Very rough and faulty, but so
funny, that it was evident Polly's sense of humor was strong. A few
pages farther back came Fanny and Mr. Frank, caricatured; then grandma,
carefully done; Tom reciting his battle-piece; Mr. Shaw and Polly in
the park; Maud being borne away by Katy; and all the school-girls turned
into ridicule with an unsparing hand.
“Sly little puss, to make fun of us behind our backs,” said Fan, rather
nettled by Polly's quiet retaliation for many slights from herself and
friends.
“She does draw well,” said Tom, looking critically at the sketch of a
boy with a pleasant face, round whom Polly had drawn rays like the sun,
and under which was written, “My dear Jimmy.”
“You would n't admire her, if you knew what she wrote here about you,”
said Fanny, whose eyes had strayed to the written page opposite, and
lingered there long enough to read something that excited her curiosity.
“What is it?” asked Tom, forgetting his honorable resolves for a minute.
“She says, 'I try to like Tom, and when he is pleasant we do very well;
but he don't stay so long. He gets cross and rough, and disrespectful to
his father and mother, and plagues us girls, and is so horrid I almost
hate him. It's very wrong, but I can't help it.' How do you like that?”
asked Fanny.
“Go ahead, and see how she comes down on you, ma'am,” retorted Tom, who
had read on a bit.
“Does she?” And Fanny continued, rapidly: “As for Fan, I don't think
we can be friends any more; for she told her father a lie, and won't
forgive me for not doing so too. I used to think her a very fine girl;
but I don't now. If she would be as she was when I first knew her, I
should love her just the same; but she is n't kind to me; and though she
is always talking about politeness, I don't think it is polite to treat
company as she does me. She thinks I am odd and countrified, and I dare
say I am; but I should n't laugh at a girl's clothes because she was
poor, or keep her out of the way because she did n't do just as other
girls do here. I see her make fun of me, and I can't feel as I did; and
I'd go home, only it would seem ungrateful to Mr. Shaw and grandma, and
I do love them dearly.”
“I say, Fan, you've got it now. Shut the book and come away,” cried
Tom, enjoying this broadside immensely, but feeling guilty, as well he
might.
“Just one bit more,” whispered Fanny, turning on a page or two, and
stopping at a leaf that was blurred here and there as if tears had
dropped on it.
“Sunday morning, early. Nobody is up to spoil my quiet time, and I must
write my journal, for I've been so bad lately, I could n't bear to do
it. I'm glad my visit is most done, for things worry me here, and there
is n't any one to help me get right when I get wrong. I used to envy
Fanny; but I don't now, for her father and mother don't take care of her
as mine do of me. She is afraid of her father, and makes her mother do
as she likes. I'm glad I came though, for I see money don't give
people everything; but I'd like a little all the same, for it is so
comfortable to buy nice things. I read over my journal just now, and
I'm afraid it's not a good one; for I have said all sorts of things
about the people here, and it is n't kind. I should tear it out, only I
promised to keep my diary, and I want to talk over things that puzzle me
with mother. I see now that it is my fault a good deal; for I have n't
been half as patient, and pleasant as I ought to be. I will truly try
for the rest of the time, and be as good and grateful as I can; for I
want them to like me, though I'm only'an old-fashioned country girl.'”
That last sentence made Fanny shut the book, with a face full of
self-reproach; for she had said those words herself, in a fit of
petulance, and Polly had made no answer, though her eyes filled and her
cheeks burned. Fan opened her lips to say something, but not a sound
followed, for there stood Polly looking at them with an expression they
had never seen before.
“What are you doing with my things?” she demanded, in a low tone, while
her eyes kindled and her color changed.
“Maud showed us a book she found, and we were just looking at the
pictures,” began Fanny, dropping it as if it burnt her fingers.
“And reading my journal, and laughing at my presents, and then putting
the blame on Maud. It's the meanest thing I ever saw; and I'll never
forgive you as long as I live!”
Polly said, this all in one indignant breath, and then as if afraid
of saying too much, ran out of the room with such a look of mingled
contempt, grief, and anger, that the three culprits stood dumb with
shame. Tom had n't even a whistle at his command; Maud was so scared at
gentle Polly's outbreak, that she sat as still as a mouse; while
Fanny, conscience stricken, laid back the poor little presents with a
respectful hand, for somehow the thought of Polly's poverty came over
her as it never had done before; and these odds and ends, so carefully
treasured up for those at home, touched Fanny, and grew beautiful in her
eyes. As she laid by the little book, the confessions in it reproached
her more sharply that any words Polly could have spoken; for she had
laughed at her friend, had slighted her sometimes, and been unforgiving
for an innocent offence. That last page, where Polly took the blame on
herself, and promised to “truly try” to be more kind and patient, went
to Fanny's heart, melting all the coldness away, and she could only lay
her head on the trunk, sobbing, “It was n't Polly's fault; it was all
mine.”
Tom, still red with shame at being caught in such a scrape, left Fanny
to her tears, and went manfully away to find the injured Polly, and
confess his manifold transgressions. But Polly could n't be found. He
searched high and low in every room, yet no sign of the girt appeared,
and Tom began to get anxious. “She can't have run away home, can she?”
he said to himself, as he paused before the hat-tree. There was the
little round hat, and Tom gave it a remorseful smooth, remembering how
many times he had tweaked it half off, or poked it over poor Polly's
eyes. “Maybe she's gone down to the office, to tell pa. 'T is n't a bit
like her, though. Anyway, I'll take a look round the corner.”
Eager to get his boots, Tom pulled open the door of a dark closet under
the stairs, and nearly tumbled over backward with surprise; for there,
on the floor, with her head pillowed on a pair of rubbers, lay Polly
in an attitude of despair. This mournful spectacle sent Tom's penitent
speech straight out of his head, and with an astonished “Hullo!” he
stood and stared in impressive silence. Polly was n't crying, and lay
so still, that Tom began to think she might be in a fit or a faint,
and bent anxiously down to inspect the pathetic bunch. A glimpse of wet
eyelashes, a round cheek redder than usual, and lips parted by quick,
breathing, relieved his mind upon that point; so, taking courage, he sat
down on the boot-jack, and begged pardon like a man.
Now, Polly was very angry, and I think she had a right to be; but she
was not resentful, and after the first flash was over, she soon began to
feel better about it. It was n't easy to forgive; but, as she listened
to Tom's honest voice, getting gruff with remorse now and then, she
could n't harden her heart against him, or refuse to make up when he so
frankly owned that it “was confounded mean to read her book that way.”
She liked his coming and begging pardon at once; it was a handsome thing
to do; she appreciated it, and forgave him in her heart some time before
she did with her lips; for, to tell the truth, Polly had a spice of
girlish malice, and rather liked to see domineering Tom eat humble-pie,
just enough to do him good, you know. She felt that atonement was
proper, and considered it no more than just that Fan should drench a
handkerchief or two with repentant tears, and that Tom should sit on
a very uncomfortable seat and call himself hard names for five or ten
minutes before she relented.
“Come, now, do say a word to a fellow. I'm getting the worst of it,
anyway; for there's Fan, crying her eyes out upstairs, and here are
you stowed away in a dark closet as dumb as a fish, and nobody but me to
bring you both round. I'd have cut over to the Smythes and got ma home
to fix things, only it looked like backing out of the scrape; so I did
n't,” said Tom, as a last appeal.
Polly was glad to hear that Fan was crying. It would do her good; but
she could n't help softening to Tom, who did seem in a predicament
between two weeping damsels. A little smile began to dimple the cheek
that was n't hidden, and then a hand came slowly out from under the
curly head, and was stretched toward him silently. Tom was just going
to give it a hearty shake, when he saw a red mark on the wrist, and knew
what made it. His face changed, and he took the chubby hand so gently,
that Polly peeped to see what it meant.
“Will you forgive that, too?” he asked, in a whisper, stroking the red
wrist.
“Yes, it don't hurt much now.” And Polly drew her hand away, sorry he
had seen it.
“I was a beast, that's what I was!” said Tom, in a tone of great
disgust. And just at that awkward minute down tumbled his father's
old beaver over his head and face, putting a comical quencher on his
self-reproaches. Of course, neither could help laughing at that; and
when he emerged, Polly was sitting up, looking as much better for her
shower as he did for his momentary eclipse.
“Fan feels dreadfully. Will you kiss and be friends, if I trot her
down?” asked Tom, remembering his fellow-sinner.
“I'll go to her.” And Polly whisked out of the closet as suddenly as
she had whisked in, leaving Tom sitting on the boot-jack, with a radiant
countenance.
How the girls made it up no one ever knew. But after much talking and
crying, kissing and laughing, the breach was healed, and peace declared.
A slight haze still lingered in the air after the storm, for Fanny
was very humble and tender that evening; Tom a trifle pensive, but
distressingly polite, and Polly magnanimously friendly to every one; for
generous natures like to forgive, and Polly enjoyed the petting after
the insult, like a very human girl.
As she was brushing her hair at bedtime there came a tap on her door
and, opening it, she beheld nothing but a tall black bottle, with a
strip of red flannel tied round it like a cravat, and a cocked-hat note
on the cork. Inside were these lines, written in a sprawling hand with
very black ink:
DEAR POLLY, Opydilldock is first-rate for sprains. You put a lot on the
flannel and do up your wrist, and I guess it will be all right in the
morning. Will you come a sleigh-ride tomorrow? I'm awful sorry I hurt
you.
TOM