something deeper than gratitude in the honest blue eyes, that could
not hide the truth entirely. Tom saw it, flushed all over his brown
face, and dropping the rubbers with a crash, took her hands,
saying, in his old impetuous way, “Polly, I want to tell you
something!”
“Yes, I know, we ‘ve been expecting it. I hope you ‘ll be very
happy, Tom;” and Polly shook his hands with a smile that was
more pathetic than a flood of tears.
“What!” cried Tom, looking as if he thought she had lost her mind.
“Ned told us all about her; he thought it would be so, and when
you spoke of another engagement, we knew you meant your own.”
“But I did n’t! Ned’s the man; he told me to tell you. It ‘s just
settled.”
“Is it Maria?” cried Polly, holding on to a chair as if to be prepared
for anything.
“Of course. Who else should it be?”
“He did n’t say you talked about her most and so we thought ”
stammered Polly, falling into a sudden flutter.
“That I was in love? Well, I am, but not with her.”
“Oh!” and Polly caught her breath as if a dash of cold water had
fallen on her, for the more in earnest Tom grew, the blunter he
became.
“Do you want to know the name of the girl I ‘ve loved for more
than a year? Well, it ‘s Polly!” As he spoke, Tom stretched out his
arms to her, with the sort of mute eloquence that cannot be
resisted, and Polly went straight into them, without a word.
Never mind what happened for a little bit. Love scenes, if genuine,
are indescribable; for to those who have enacted them, the most
elaborate description seems tame, and to those who have not, the
simplest picture seems overdone. So romancers had better let
imagination paint for them that which is above all art, and leave
their lovers to themselves during the happiest minutes of their
lives.
Before long, Tom and Polly were sitting side by side, enjoying the
blissful state of mind which usually follows the first step out of our
work-a-day world, into the glorified region wherein lovers
rapturously exist for a month or two. Tom just sat and looked at
Polly as if he found it difficult to believe that the winter of his
discontent had ended in this glorious spring. But Polly, being a
true woman, asked questions, even while she laughed and cried for
joy.
“Now, Tom, how could I know you loved me when you went away
and never said a word?” she began, in a tenderly reproachful tone,
thinking of the hard year she had spent.
“And how could I have the courage to say a word, when I had
nothing on the face of the earth to offer you but my worthless
self?” answered Tom, warmly.
“That was all I wanted!” whispered Polly, in a tone which caused
him to feel that the race of angels was not entirely extinct.
“I ‘ve always been fond of you, my Polly, but I never realized how
fond till just before I went away. I was n’t free, you know, and
besides I had a strong impression that you liked Sydney in spite of
the damper which Fan hinted you gave him last winter. He ‘s such
a capital fellow, I really don’t see how you could help it.”
“It is strange; I don’t understand it myself; but women are queer
creatures, and there ‘s no accounting for their tastes,” said Polly,
with a sly look, which Tom fully appreciated.
“You were so good to me those last days, that I came very near
speaking out, but could n’t bear to seem to be offering you a poor,
disgraced sort of fellow, whom Trix would n’t have, and no one
seemed to think worth much. ‘No,’ I said to myself, ‘Polly ought to
have the best; if Syd can get her, let him, and I won’t say a word. I
‘ll try to be better worthy her friendship, anyway; and perhaps,
when I ‘ve proved that I can do something, and am not ashamed to