An Old-Fashioned Girl. Луиза Мэй Олкотт

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.”

      “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 heart’s content, till Fan’s drawers looked as if someone had been making hay in them. He tried the effect of earrings, ribbons, and collars; wound up the watch, though it wasn’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, à 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 wouldn’t be proper,” said Polly, alarmed at the idea.

      “All the more fun. Fan hasn’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 wouldn’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