An Old-Fashioned Girl

“Don’t scare mother – I’m all right. Got upset, didn’t I?” he asked, presently, eyeing the prostrate velocipede with more anxiety about its damages than his own.

“I knew you’d hurt yourself with that horrid thing. Just let it be, and come home, for your head bleeds dreadfully, and everybody is looking at us,” whispered Polly, trying to tie the little handkerchief over the ugly cut.

“Come on, then. Jove! How queer my head feels! Give us a boost, please. Stop howling, Maud, and come home. You bring the machine, and I’ll pay you, Pat.” As he spoke, Tom slowly picked himself up, and steadying himself by Polly’s shoulder, issued his commands, and the procession fell into line. First, the big dog, barking at intervals; then the good-natured Irishman, trundling “that divil of a whirligig,” as he disrespectfully called the idolized velocipede; then the wounded hero, supported by the faithful Polly; and Maud brought up the rear in tears, bearing Tom’s cap.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Shaw was out driving with grandma, and Fanny was making calls; so that there was no one but Polly to stand by Tom, for the parlormaid turned faint at the sight of blood, and the chambermaid lost her wits in the flurry. It was a bad cut, and must be sewed up at once, the doctor said, as soon as he came. “Somebody must hold his head,” he added, as he threaded his queer little needle.

“I’ll keep still, but if anybody must hold me, let Polly. You ain’t afraid, are you?” asked Tom, with an imploring look, for he didn’t like the idea of being sewed a bit.

Polly was just going to shrink away, saying, “Oh, I can’t!” when she remembered that Tom once called her a coward.

Here was a chance to prove that she wasn’t; besides, poor Tom had no one else to help him; so she came up to the sofa where he lay, and nodded reassuringly, as she put a soft little hand on either side of the damaged head.

“You are a trump, Polly,” whispered Tom. Then he set his teeth, clenched his hands, lay quite still, and bore it like a man. It was all over in a minute or two, and when he had had a glass of wine, and was nicely settled on his bed, he felt pretty comfortable, in spite of the pain in his head; and being ordered to keep quiet, he said, “Thank you ever so much, Polly,” and watched her with a grateful face as she crept away.

He had to keep the house for a week, and laid about looking very interesting with a great black patch on his forehead. Everyone petted him; for the doctor said, that if the blow had been an inch nearer the temple, it would have been fatal, and the thought of losing him so suddenly made bluff old Tom very precious all at once. His father asked him how he was a dozen times a day; his mother talked continually of “that dear boy’s narrow escape”; and grandma cockered him up with every delicacy she could invent; and the girls waited on him like devoted slaves. This new treatment had an excellent effect; for when neglected Tom got over his first amazement at this change of base, he blossomed out delightfully, as sick people do sometimes, and surprised his family by being unexpectedly patient, grateful, and amiable. Nobody ever knew how much good it did him; for boys seldom have confidences of this sort except with their mothers, and Mrs. Shaw had never found the key to her son’s heart. But a little seed was sowed then that took root, and though it grew very slowly, it came to something in the end. Perhaps Polly helped it a little. Evening was his hardest time, for want of exercise made him as restless and nervous as it was possible for a hearty lad to be on such a short notice. He couldn’t sleep, so the girls amused him – Fanny played and read aloud; Polly sung, and told stories; and did the latter so well, that it got to be a regular thing for her to begin as soon as twilight came, and Tom was settled in his favorite place on grandma’s sofa.

“Fire away, Polly,” said the young sultan, one evening, as his little Scheherazade sat down in her low chair, after stirring up the fire till the room was bright and cosy.

“I don’t feel like stories tonight, Tom. I’ve told all I know, and can’t make up any more,” answered Polly, leaning her head on her hand with a sorrowful look that Tom had never seen before. He watched her a minute, and then asked, curiously, “What were you thinking about, just now, when you sat staring at the fire, and getting soberer and soberer every minute?”

“I was thinking about Jimmy.”

“Would you mind telling about him? You know, you said you would some time; but don’t, if you’d rather not,” said Tom, lowering his rough voice respectfully.

“I like to talk about him; but there isn’t much to tell,” began Polly, grateful for his interest. “Sitting here with you reminded me of the way I used to sit with him when he was sick. We used to have such happy times, and it’s so pleasant to think about them now.”

“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.”

Chapter 5

Scrapes

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 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?”