“Like a lamb; for when I ‘d done, he only said, ‘My poor lad, we
must bear with one another.’ and then told his story.”
“I ‘m glad he was kind,” began Polly, in a soothing tone; but Tom
cried out, remorsefully, “That ‘s what knocks me over! Just when I
ought to be a pride and a prop to him, I bring him my debts and
disgrace, and he never says a word of blame. It ‘s no use, I can’t
stand it!” and Tom’s head went down again with something very
like a sob, that would come in spite of manful efforts to keep it
back, for the poor fellow had the warmest heart that ever was, and
all the fine waistcoats outside could n’t spoil it.
That sound gave Polly more pain than the news of a dozen failures
and expulsions, and it was as impossible for her to resist putting
her hand tenderly on the bent head, as it was for her to help
noticing with pleasure how brown the little curls were growing,
and how soft they were. In spite of her sorrow, she enjoyed that
minute very much, for she was a born consoler, and, it is hardly
necessary for me to add, loved this reprehensible Tom with all her
heart. It was a very foolish thing for her to do, she quite agreed to
that; she could n’t understand it, explain it, or help it; she only felt
that she did care for him very much, in spite of his faults, his
indifference, and his engagement. You see, she learned to love him
one summer, when he made them a visit. That was before Trix
caught him; and when she heard that piece of news, Polly could n’t
unlove him all at once, though she tried very hard, as was her duty.
That engagement was such a farce, that she never had much faith
in it, so she put her love away in a corner of her heart, and tried to
forget it, hoping it would either die, or have a right to live. It did
n’t make her very miserable, because patience, work, and
common-sense lent her a hand, and hope would keep popping up
its bright face from the bottom of her Pandora-box of troubles.
Now and then, when any one said Trix would n’t jilt Tom, or that
Tom did care for Trix more than he should, Polly had a pang, and
thought she could n’t possibly bear it. But she always found she
could, and so came to the conclusion that it was a merciful
provision of nature that girls’ hearts could stand so much, and their
appetites continue good, when unrequited love was starving.
Now, she could not help yearning over this faulty, well-beloved
scapegrace Tom, or help thinking, with a little thrill of hope, “If
Trix only cared for his money, she may cast him off now he ‘s lost
it; but I ‘ll love him all the better because he ‘s poor.” With this
feeling warm at her heart, I don’t wonder that Polly’s hand had a
soothing effect, and that after a heave or two, Tom’s shoulders
were quiet, and certain smothered sniffs suggested that he would
be all right again, if he could only wipe his eyes without any one’s
seeing him do it.
Polly seemed to divine his wish, and tucking a little, clean
handkerchief into one of his half-open hands, she said, “I ‘m going
to your father, now,” and with a farewell smooth, so comforting
that Tom wished she ‘d do it again, she went away.
As she paused a minute in the hall to steady herself, Maud called
her from above, and thinking that the women might need her more
than the men, she ran up to find Fanny waiting for her in her own
room.
“Mamma’s asleep, quite worn out, poor dear, so we can talk in here
without troubling her,” said Fanny, receiving her friend so quietly,
that Polly was amazed.
“Let me come, too, I won’t make any fuss; it ‘s so dreadful to be
shut out everywhere, and have people crying and talking, and
locked up, and I not know what it means,” said Maud,