An Old-Fashioned Girl (26 page)

“Don’t shut your eyes, Polly; they are so full of mischief tonight, I like to see them,” said Tom, after idly wondering for
a minute if she knew how long and curly her lashes were.

“I don’t wish to look affected; but the music tells the story so much better than the acting, that I don’t care to look on,
half the time,” answered Polly, hoping Tom wouldn’t see the tears she had so cleverly suppressed.

“Now I like the acting best; the music is all very fine, I know; but it does seem so absurd for people to go round telling
tremendous secrets at the top of their voices. I can’t get used to it.”

“That’s because you’ve more common sense than romance. I don’t mind the absurdity, and quite long to go and comfort that poor
girl with the broken heart,” said Polly, with a sigh, as the curtain fell on a most afflicting tableau.

“What’s-his-name is a great jack not to see that she adores him; in real life, we fellows ain’t such bats as all that,” observed
Tom, who had decided opinions on many subjects that he knew very little about, and expressed them with great candor.

A curious smile passed over Polly’s face, and she put up her glass to hide her eyes, as she said —

“I think you are bats sometimes; but women are taught to wear masks, and that accounts for it, I suppose.”

“I don’t agree. There’s precious little masking nowadays; wish there was a little more, sometimes,” added Tom, thinking of
several blooming damsels whose beseeching eyes had begged him not to leave them to wither on the parent stem.

“I hope not; but I guess there’s a good deal more than anyone would suspect.”

“What can you know about broken hearts and blighted beings?” asked Sydney, smiling at the girl’s pensive tone.

Polly glanced up at him, and her face dimpled and shone again, as she answered, laughing —

“Not much; my time is to come.”

“I can’t imagine you walking about the world, with your back hair down, bewailing a hard-hearted lover,” said Tom.

“Neither can I; that wouldn’t be my way.”

“No; Miss Polly would let concealment prey on her damask cheeks, and still smile on, in the novel fashion; or turn sister
of charity, and nurse the heartless lover through smallpox, or some nice contagious disease, and die seraphically, leaving
him to the agonies of remorse and tardy love.”

Polly gave Sydney an indignant look, as he said that, in a slow satirical way, that nettled her very much, for she hated to
be thought sentimental.

“That’s not my way either,” she said, decidedly; “I’d try to outlive it, and if I couldn’t, I’d try to be the better for it.
Disappointment needn’t make a woman a fool.”

“Nor an old maid, if she’s pretty and good; remember that, and don’t visit the sins of one blockhead on all the rest of mankind,”
said Tom, laughing at her earnestness.

“I don’t think there is the slightest possibility of Miss Polly’s being either,” added Sydney with a look which made it evident
that concealment had not seriously damaged Polly’s damask cheek as yet.

“There’s Clara Bird. I haven’t seen her but once since she was married. How pretty she looks!” and Polly retired behind the
big glass again, thinking the chat was becoming rather personal.

“Now, there’s a girl who tried a different cure for unrequited affection from any you mention. People say she was fond of
Belle’s brother; he didn’t reciprocate, but went off to India to spoil his constitution, so Clara married a man twenty years
older than she is, and consoles herself by being the best-dressed woman in the city.”

“That accounts for it,” said Polly, when Tom’s long whisper ended.

“For what?”

“The tired look in her eyes.”

“I don’t see it,” said Tom, after a survey through the glass.

“Didn’t expect you would.”

“I see what you mean; a good many women have it nowadays,” said Sydney, over Polly’s shoulder.

“What’s she tired of? The old gentleman?” asked Tom.

“And herself,” added Polly.

“You’ve been reading French novels, I know you have; that’s just the way the heroines go on,” cried Tom.

“I haven’t read one; but it’s evident you have, young man, and you’d better stop.”

“I don’t care for ’em; only do it to keep up my French. But how came you to be so wise, ma’am?”

“Observation, sir. I like to watch faces; and I seldom see a grown-up one that looks perfectly happy.”

“True for you, Polly; no more you do, now I think of it. I don’t know but one that always looks so, and there it is.”

“Where?” asked Polly, with interest.

“Look straight before you, and you’ll see it.”

Polly did look, but all she saw was her own face in the little mirror of the fan which Tom held up and peeped over with a
laugh in his eyes.

“Do I look happy? I’m glad of that,” and Polly surveyed herself with care.

Both young men thought it was girlish vanity, and smiled at its naïve display; but Polly was looking for something deeper
than beauty, and was glad not to find it.

“Rather a pleasant little prospect, hey, Polly?”

“My bonnet is straight, and that’s all I care about. Did you ever see a picture of Beau Brummel?” asked Polly, quickly.

“No.”

“Well, there he is, modernized,” and turning the fan, she showed him himself.

“Any more portraits in your gallery?” asked Sydney, as if he liked to share all the nonsense going.

“One more.”

“What do you call it?”

“The portrait of a gentleman;” and the little glass reflected a gratified face for the space of two seconds.

“Thank you; I’m glad I don’t disgrace my name,” said Sydney, looking down into the merry blue eyes that thanked him silently
for many of the small kindnesses that women never can forget.

“Very good, Polly, you are getting on fast,” whispered Tom, patting his yellow kids approvingly.

“Be quiet! Dear me, how warm it is!” and Polly gave him a frown that delighted his soul.

“Come out and have an ice; we shall have time.”

“Fan is so absorbed, I couldn’t think of disturbing her,” said Polly, fancying that her friend was enjoying the evening as
much as she was — a great mistake, by the way, for Fan was acting for effect; and though she longed to turn and join them,
wouldn’t do it, unless a certain person showed signs of missing her. He didn’t, and Fanny chatted on, raging inwardly over
her disappointment, and wondering how Polly could be so gay and selfish.

It was delicious to see the little airs Polly put on, for she felt as if she were somebody else, and acting a part. She leaned
back, as if quite oppressed by the heat, permitted Sydney to fan her, and paid him for the service by giving him a flower
from her bouquet — proceedings which amused Tom immensely, even while it piqued him a little to be treated like an old friend
who didn’t count.

“Go in and win, Polly; I’ll give you my blessing,” he whispered, as the curtain rose again.

“It’s only part of the fun, so don’t you laugh, you disrespectful boy,” she whispered back in a tone never used toward Sydney.

Tom didn’t quite like the different way in which she treated them, and the word “boy” disturbed his dignity, for he was almost
twenty-one, and Polly ought to treat him with more respect. Sydney, at the same moment, was wishing he was in Tom’s place
— young, comely, and such a familiar friend, that Polly would scold and lecture him in the delightful way she did Tom; while
Polly forgot them both when the music began, and left them ample time to look at her and think about themselves.

While they waited to get out, when all was over, Polly heard Fan whisper to Tom —

“What do you think Trix will say to this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, the way you’ve been going on tonight.”

“Don’t know, and don’t care; it’s only Polly.”

“That’s the very thing; she can’t bear P.”

“Well, I can; and I don’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy myself as well as Trix.”

“You’ll get to enjoying yourself too much, if you aren’t careful. Polly’s waked up.”

“I’m glad of it, and so’s Syd.”

“I only spoke for your good.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about me; I get lecturing enough in another quarter, and can’t stand any more. Come, Polly.”

She took the arm he offered her, but her heart was sore and angry, for that phrase, “It’s only Polly,” hurt her sadly. “As
if I wasn’t anybody, hadn’t any feelings, and was only made to amuse or work for people! Fan and Tom are both mistaken, and
I’ll show them that Polly
is
awake,” she thought, indignantly. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself as well as the rest; besides, it’s only Tom,” she added,
with a bitter smile, as she thought of Trix.

“Are you tired, Polly?” asked Tom, bending down to look into her face.

“Yes; of being nobody.”

“Ah, but you ain’t nobody; you’re Polly, and you couldn’t better that if you tried ever so hard,” said Tom, warmly, for he
really was fond of Polly, and felt uncommonly so just then.

“I’m glad you think so, anyway; it’s so pleasant to be liked,” and she looked up with her face quite bright again.

“I always did like you; don’t you know, ever since that first visit.”

“But you teased me shamefully, for all that.”

“So I did; but I don’t now.”

Polly did not answer, and Tom asked, with more anxiety than the occasion required —

“Do I, Polly?”

“Not in the same way, Tom,” she answered, in a tone that didn’t sound quite natural.

“Well, I never will again.”

“Yes, you will; you can’t help it.” And Polly’s eye glanced at Sydney, who was in front with Fan.

Tom laughed, and drew Polly closer, as the crowd pressed, saying, with mock tenderness —

“Didn’t she like to be chaffed about her sweethearts? Well, she shan’t be, if I can help it. Poor dear, did she get her little
bonnet knocked into a cocked hat, and her little temper riled at the same time?”

Polly couldn’t help laughing, and, in spite of the crush, enjoyed the slow journey from seat to carriage, for Tom took such
excellent care of her, she was rather sorry when it was over.

They had a merry little supper after they got home, and Polly gave them a burlesque opera, that convulsed her hearers, for
her spirits rose again, and she was determined to get the last drop of fun before she went back to her humdrum life again.

“I’ve had a regularly splendid time, and thank you ever so much,” she said, when the good-nights were being exchanged.

“So have I; let’s go and do it again tomorrow,” said Tom, holding the hand from which he had helped to pull a refractory glove.

“Not for a long while, please; too much pleasure would soon spoil me,” answered Polly, shaking her head.

“I don’t believe it. Good-night, ‘sweet Mistress Milton,’ as Syd called you. Sleep like an angel, and don’t dream of — I forgot,
no teasing allowed,” and Tom took himself off with a theatrical farewell.

“Now it’s all over and done with,” thought Polly, as she fell asleep after a long vigil. But it was not, and Polly’s fun cost
more than the price of gloves and bonnet, for, having nibbled at forbidden fruit, she had to pay the penalty. She only meant
to have a good time, and there was no harm in that; but, unfortunately, she yielded to the various small temptations that
beset pretty young girls, and did more mischief to others than to herself. Fanny’s friendship grew cooler after that night.
Tom kept wishing Trix was half as satisfactory as Polly, and Mr. Sydney began to build castles that had no foundation.

“I’
ve won the wager, Tom.”

“Didn’t know there was one.”

“Don’t you remember you said Polly would be tired of her teaching and give it up in three months, and I said she wouldn’t?”

“Well, isn’t she?”

“Not a bit of it. I thought she was at one time, and expected every day to have her come in with a long face, and say she
couldn’t stand it. But somehow, lately, she is always bright and happy, seems to like her work, and don’t have the tired,
worried look she used to at first. The three months are out, so pay up, Tommy.”

“All right, what will you have?”

“You may make it gloves. I always need them, and papa looks sober when I want money.”

There was a minute’s pause as Fan returned to her practising, and Tom relapsed into the reverie he was enjoying seated astride
of a chair, with his chin on his folded arms.

“Seems to me Polly don’t come here as often as she used to,” he said, presently.

“No, she seems to be very busy; got some new friends, I believe — old ladies, sewing-girls, and things of that sort. I miss
her, but know she’ll get tired of being goody, and will come back to me before long.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, ma’am.” Something in Tom’s tone made Fan turn round, and ask —

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it strikes me that Sydney is one of Polly’s new friends. Haven’t you observed that she is uncommonly jolly, and don’t
that sort of thing account for it?”

“Nonsense!” said Fanny, sharply.

“Hope it is,” coolly returned Tom.

“What put it into your head?” demanded Fanny, twirling round again so that her face was hidden.

“Oh, well, I keep meeting Syd and Polly circulating in the same directions; she looks as if she had found something uncommonly
nice, and he looks as if all creation was getting Pollyfied pretty rapidly. Wonder you haven’t observed it.”

“I have.”

It was Tom’s turn to look surprised now, for Fanny’s voice sounded strange to him. He looked at her steadily for a minute,
but saw only a rosy ear and a bent head. A cloud passed over his face, and he leaned his chin on his arm again with a despondent
whistle, as he said to himself —

“Poor Fan! Both of us in a scrape at once.”

“Don’t you think it would be a good thing?” asked Fanny, after playing a bar or two, very badly.

“Yes, for Syd.”

“Not for Polly? Why, he’s rich, and clever, and better than most of you good-for-nothing fellows. What can the girl expect?”

“Can’t say, but I don’t fancy the match myself.”