An Old-Fashioned Girl (33 page)

“I’m so relieved; for when papa said we must give up everything, and mamma called us all beggars, I did think I’d got to go
round asking for cold vittles, with a big basket, and an old shawl over my head. I said once I’d like that, but I’m afraid
I shouldn’t, for I can’t bear Indian cake and cold potatoes — that’s what the poor children always seem to get — and I
should
hate to have Grace and the rest see me scuffing round the back gates.”

“My little girl shall never come to that, if I can help it,” said Mr. Shaw, holding her close, with a look that made Maud
add, as she laid her cheek against his own —

“But I’d do it, father, if you asked me to, for I truly want to help.”

“So do I!” cried Fanny, wondering at the same minute how it would seem to wear turned silks, and clean her gloves.

Tom said nothing, but drew toward him a paper of figures which his father had drawn up, and speedily reduced himself to the
verge of distraction by trying to understand them, in his ardent desire to prove his willingness to put his shoulder to the
wheel.

“We shall pull through, children, so don’t borrow trouble, only be ready for discomforts and annoyances. Put your pride in
your pockets, and remember poverty isn’t disgraceful, but dishonesty is.”

Polly had always loved kind Mr. Shaw, but now she respected him heartily, and felt that she had not done him justice when
she sometimes thought that he only cared for making money.

“I shouldn’t wonder if this was a good thing for the whole family, though it don’t look so. Mrs. Shaw will take it the hardest,
but it may stir her up, so she will forget her nerves, and be as busy and happy as mother is,” said Polly to herself, in a
hopeful mood, for poverty was an old friend, and she had learned long ago not to fear it, but to take its bitter and its sweet,
and make the best of both.

When they parted for the night, Polly slipped away first, to leave them free, yet couldn’t help lingering outside to see how
tenderly the girls parted from their father. Tom hadn’t a word to say for himself, for men don’t kiss, caress, or cry when
they feel most, and all he could do to express his sympathy and penitence, was to wring his father’s hand with a face full
of respect, regret, and affection, and then bolt upstairs as if the furies were after him, as they were, in a mild and modern
form.

T
he weeks that followed taught the Shaws, as many other families have been taught, how rapidly riches take to themselves wings
and fly away, when they once begin to go. Mr. Shaw carried out his plans with an energy and patience that worked wonders,
and touched the hearts of his hardest creditors. The big house was given up as soon as possible, and the little house taken;
being made comfortable with the furniture Madam left there, when she went to live with her son. The old-fashioned things had
been let with the house, and now seemed almost like a gift from Grandma, doubly precious in these troublous times. At the
auction, several persons tried to show the family, that though they had lost their fortune, friends still remained, for one
bid in Fanny’s piano, and sent it to her; another secured certain luxurious articles for Mrs. Shaw’s comfort; and a third
saved such of Mr. Shaw’s books as he valued most, for he had kept his word and given up everything, with the most punctilious
integrity. So the little house was not bare, but made pleasant to their eyes by these waifs from the wreck, brought them by
the tide of sympathy and goodwill which soon set in.

Everybody who knew them hastened to call, many from a real regard, but more from mere curiosity to “see how they took it.”
This was one of the hardest things they had to bear, and Tom used strong language more than once, when some fine lady came
to condole, and went away to gossip. Polly’s hopes of Mrs. Shaw were disappointed, for misfortune did not have a bracing effect.
She took to her bed at once, received her friends in tears and a point-lace cap, and cheered her family by plaintively inquiring
when she was to be taken to the almshouse. This was hard for Fanny; but after an interval of despair, she came to the conclusion
that under the circumstances it was the best thing her mother could have done, and with something of her father’s energy,
Fanny shouldered the new burden, feeling that at last necessity had given her what she had long needed, something to do.

The poor girl knew as much of household affairs as Snip; but pride, and the resolution “to stand by father,” kept up her courage,
and she worked away with feverish activity at whatever task came first, till, just as strength and heart were about to fail,
order began to emerge from chaos, and the vision of a home made happy and comfortable by her skill and care, came to repay
and sustain her.

Maud, being relieved from the fear of backdoor beggary, soon became reconciled to bankruptcy; thought it rather a good joke,
on the whole, for children like novelty, and don’t care much for Mrs. Grundy. She regarded the new abode as a baby-house on
a large scale, where she was allowed to play her part in the most satisfactory manner. From the moment when, on taking possession
of the coveted room, she opened the doors of the three-cornered closet, and found a little kettle, just like Polly’s, standing
there, she felt that a good time was coming for her, and fell to dusting furniture, washing cups, and making toast, the happiest,
fussiest little housewife in the city. For Maud inherited the notable gifts of her grandmother, and would have made a capital
farmer’s daughter, in spite of her city breeding.

Polly came and went through all these changes, faithful, helpful, and as cheery as she could be, when her friends were in
trouble. The parts seemed reversed now, and it was Polly who gave, Fanny who received; for where everything seemed strange
and new to Fan, Polly was quite at home, and every one of the unfashionable domestic accomplishments now came into play, to
the comfort of the Shaws, and the great satisfaction of Polly. She could not do enough to prove her gratitude for former favors,
and went toiling and moiling about, feeling that the hardest, most disagreeable tasks were her especial duty. In the moving
nothing suited her better than to trot up and down, lugging heavy things; to pound her fingers black and blue, nailing carpets
and curtains; and the day she nearly broke her neck, tumbling down the cellar stairs, in her eagerness to see that Mrs. Shaw’s
wine was rightly stored, she felt that she was only paying her debts, and told Tom she liked it, when he picked her up, looking
as grimy as a chimney sweep.

“You can turn your hand to anything, you clever girl, so do come and give me some advice, for I am in the depths of despair,”
said Fanny, when the “maid-of-all-work,” as Polly called herself, found a leisure hour.

“What is it? Moths in the furs, a smoky chimney, or smallpox next door?” asked Polly, as they entered Fan’s room, where Maud
was trying on old bonnets before the looking glass.

“Actually I have nothing to wear,” began Fan, impressively; “I’ve been too busy to think or care till now, but here it is
nearly May, and I have hardly a decent rag to my back. Usually, you know, I just go to Mrs. O’Grady and tell her what I want;
she makes my spring wardrobe, papa pays the bill, and there I am. Now I’ve looked into the matter, and I declare to you, Polly,
I’m frightened to see how much it costs to dress me.”

“Not so much as some girls I know,” said Polly, encouragingly.

“Perhaps not, for I have a conscience, and taste is economy sometimes; but really, Polly, I haven’t the heart to ask papa
for a cent just now, and yet I must have clothes. You are such a genius for planning and working wonders, that I throw myself
upon you, and ask, ‘How shall I make a spring wardrobe out of nothing?’”

“Let me see the ‘nothing’ before I advise. Bring out every rag you’ve got, and we’ll see what can be done,” said Polly, looking
as if she enjoyed the prospect, for she had a great deal of that feminine faculty which we call “knack,” and much practice
had increased it.

Fanny brought out her “rags,” and was astonished to see how many she had, for chair, sofa, bed, and bureau were covered, and
still Maud, who was burrowing in the closets, kept crying, “Here’s another.”

“There’s a discouraging heap of rubbish for you!” said Fan, as she added a faded muslin to the last pile.

“Now, to me your ‘rubbish’ looks very encouraging, because there is good material there, and not much worn-out finery — that’s
my detestation, for you can’t do anything with it. Let me see, five bonnets. Put the winter ones away till autumn, rip up
the summer ones, and out of three old ones we’ll get a pretty new one, if my eyes don’t deceive me.”

“I’ll rip, and then do let me see you make a bonnet, it must be so interesting,” said Maud, whipping out her scissors, and
eagerly beginning to reduce a shabby little bonnet to its original elements.

“Now the dresses,” continued Polly, who had rapidly sorted out the piles.

“Will you have the goodness to look at this?” said Fan, holding up a gray street suit, faded past cure.

Polly whisked it wrong side out, and showing the clean, bright fabric, said, with a triumphant wave —

“Behold your new suit; fresh trimming and less of it will finish you off as smart as ever.”

“I never wore a turned dress in my life; do you suppose people will know it?” said Fan, doubtfully.

“What if they do, it won’t hurt you. Not one in a hundred will ever think anything about your dress, except that it is pretty.
I’ve worn turned and dyed gowns all my days, and it don’t seem to have alienated my friends, or injured my constitution.”

“That it hasn’t; I’m a goose, Polly, and I’ll get over the feeling that it’s sort of disgraceful to be poor and have to economize.
We’ll turn the gray, and I’ll wear it bravely.”

“Then it will be more becoming than ever. Oh, here’s the pretty violet silk; that will make a lovely suit,” cried Polly, going
on with the review.

“Don’t see how two draggled skirts and a stained waist can be transformed into a whole rig,” said Fan, sitting on the bed,
with her garments strewn about her in various attitudes of limp despondency.

“Well, ma’am, my plan is this,” began Polly, imitating Mrs. O’Grady’s important tone, and bad grammar: “Gores is out, and
plaits is in; therefore, as the top of this skirt is quite fresh, we will take off the ruffles, turn it upside down, and leave
it plain. The upper skirt will be made scanter, and finished with a frill; then the waist can be refreshed with the best parts
of these wide flounces, and out of those new bits we will concoct a hat. The black lace Maud has just taken off the green
one will do to edge the violet, and with your nice silk mantilla you are complete, don’t you see?”

“I don’t quite see it yet, but I have firm faith that I shall in time, and consider my calling costume finished,” said Fanny,
getting more and more interested as she saw her condemned wardrobe coming out fresh again under Polly’s magic knack.

“There are two; then that piqué is all right, if you cut the tail off the jacket, and change the trimming a bit. The muslins
only need mending and doing up to look as well as ever; you ought not to put them away torn and soiled, my child. The two
black silks will be good standbys for years. If
I
were you, I’d have a couple of neat, pretty prints for home-wear, and then I don’t see why you aren’t fixed well enough for
our short season.”

“Can’t I do anything with this barege? It’s one of my favorite dresses, and I hate to give it up.”

“You wore that thoroughly out, and it’s only fit for the rag-bag. Yes, it was very pretty and becoming, I remember, but its
day is over.”

Fanny let the dress lie in her lap a minute, as she absently picked at the fringe, smiling to herself over the happy time
when she wore it last, and Sydney said she only needed cowslips in her lap to look like spring. Presently she folded it up,
and put it away with a sigh; but it never went into the rag-bag, and my sentimental readers can understand what saved it.

“The ball dresses had better be put nicely away till next year,” began Polly, coming to a rainbow-colored heap.

“My day is over, I shall never use them again; do what you like with them,” said Fan, calmly.

“Did you ever sell your cast-off finery, as many ladies do?” asked Polly.

“Never; I don’t like the fashion. I give it away, or let Maud have it for tableaux.”

“I wonder if you would mind my telling you something Belle proposed?”

“If it’s an offer to buy my clothes, I
should
mind,” answered Fanny, sharply.

“Then I won’t,” and Polly retired behind a cloud of arsenic-green gauze, which made her look as if she had the cholera.

“If she wanted to buy that horrid new ‘gooseberry colored gown,’ as Tom calls it, I’d let her have it cheap,” put in Maud,
who was of a practical turn.

“Does she want it, Polly?” asked Fan, whose curiosity got the better of her pride.

“Well, she merely asked me if I thought you’d be mortally offended, if she offered to take it off your hands, as you’d never
worn it. You don’t like it, and another season it will be all out of fashion,” said Polly, from her verdant retreat.

“What did you say?”

“I saw she meant it kindly, so I said I’d ask. Now between ourselves, Fan, the price of that dress would give you all you’ll
want for your spring fixings, that’s one consideration; then here’s another, which may have some weight with you,” added Polly,
slyly. “Trix told Belle she was going to ask you for the dress, as you wouldn’t care to wear it now. That made Belle fire
up, and say it was a mean thing to do without offering some return, for a costly thing like that; and then Belle said, in
her blunt way, ‘I’ll give Fan all she paid for it, and more too, if it will be any help to her. I don’t care for the dress,
but I’d like to slip a little money into her pocket, for I know she needs it, and is too good to ask dear Mr. Shaw for anything
she can get on without.’”