'Did you want me, Tom?'
'Yes. Come in, please, and don't look scared; I only want to show you a present I 've had, and ask your advice about accepting it.'
'Why, Tom, you look as if you had been knocked down!' exclaimed Polly, forgetting all about herself, as she saw his face when he rose and turned to meet her.
'I have; regularly floored; but I 'm up again, and steadier than ever. Just you read that, and tell me what you think of it.'
Tom snatched a letter off the table, put it into her hands, and began to walk up and down the little room, like a veritable bear in its cage. As Polly read that short note, all the color went out of her face, and her eyes began to kindle. When she came to the end, she stood a minute, as if too indignant to speak, then gave the paper a nervous sort of crumple and dropped it on the floor, saying, all in one breath, 'I think she is a mercenary, heartless, ungrateful girl! That 's what I think.'
'Oh, the deuce! I did n't mean to show that one; it 's the other.' And Tom took up a second paper, looking half angry, half ashamed at his own mistake. 'I don't care, though; every one will know to-morrow; and perhaps you 'll be good enough to keep the girls from bothering me with questions and gabble,' he added, as if, on second thoughts, he was relieved to have the communication made to Polly first.
'I don't wonder you looked upset. If the other letter is as bad, I 'd better have a chair before I read it,' said Polly, feeling that she began to tremble with excitement.
'It 's a million times better, but it knocked me worse than the other; kindness always does.' Tom stopped short there, and stood a minute turning the letter about in his hand as if it contained a sweet which neutralized the bitter in that smaller note, and touched him very much. Then he drew up an armchair, and beckoning Polly to take it, said in a sober, steady tone, that surprised her greatly, 'Whenever I was in a quandary, I used to go and consult grandma, and she always had something sensible or comfortable to say to me. She 's gone now, but somehow, Polly, you seem to take her place. Would you mind sitting in her chair, and letting me tell you two or three things, as Will does?'
Mind it? Polly felt that Tom had paid her the highest and most beautiful compliment he could have devised. She had often longed to do it, for, being brought up in the most affectionate and frank relations with her brothers, she had early learned what it takes most women some time to discover, that sex does not make nearly as much difference in hearts and souls as we fancy. Joy and sorrow, love and fear, life and death bring so many of the same needs to all, that the wonder is we do not understand each other better, but wait till times of tribulation teach us that human nature is very much the same in men and women. Thanks to this knowledge, Polly understood Tom in a way that surprised and won him. She knew that he wanted womanly sympathy, and that she could give it to him, because she was not afraid to stretch her hand across the barrier which our artificial education puts between boys and girls, and to say to him in all good faith, 'If I can help you, let me.'
Ten minutes sooner Polly could have done this almost as easily to Tom as to Will, but in that ten minutes something had happened which made this difficult. Reading that Trix had given Tom back his freedom changed many things to Polly, and caused her to shrink from his confidence, because she felt as if it would be harder now to keep self out of sight; for, spite of maiden modesty, love and hope would wake and sing at the good news. Slowly she sat down, and hesitatingly she said, with her eyes on the ground, and a very humble voice, 'I 'll do my best, but I can't fill grandma's place, or give you any wise, good advice. I wish I could!'
'You 'll do it better than any one else. Talk troubles mother, father has enough to think of without any of my worries. Fan is a good soul, but she is n't practical, and we always get into a snarl if we try to work together, so who have I but my other sister, Polly? The pleasure that letter will give you may make up for my boring you.'
As he spoke, Tom laid the other paper in her lap, and went off to the window, as if to leave her free to enjoy it unseen; but he could not help a glance now and then, and as Polly's face brightened, his own fell.
'Oh, Tom, that 's a birthday present worth having, for it 's so beautifully given I don't see how you can refuse it. Arthur Sydney is a real nobleman!' cried Polly, looking up at last, with her fact glowing, and her eyes full of delight.
'So he is! I don't know another man living, except father, who would have done such a thing, or who I could bring myself to take it from. Do you see, he 's not only paid the confounded debts, but has done it in my name, to spare me all he could?'
'I see, it 's like him; and I think he must be very happy to be able to do such a thing.'
'It is an immense weight off my shoulders, for some of those men could n't afford to wait till I 'd begged, borrowed, or earned the money. Sydney can wait, but he won't long, if I know myself.' 'You won't take it as a gift, then?'
'Would you?'
'No.'
'Then don't think I will. I 'm a pretty poor affair, Polly, but I 'm not mean enough to do that, while I 've got a conscience and a pair of hands.'
A rough speech, but it pleased Polly better than the smoothest Tom had ever made in her hearing, for something in his face and voice told her that the friendly act had roused a nobler sentiment than gratitude, making the cancelled obligations of the boy, debts of honor to the man.
'What will you do, Tom?'
'I 'll tell you; may I sit here?' And Tom took the low footstool that always stood near grandma's old chair. 'I 've had so many plans in my head lately, that sometimes it seems as if it would split,' continued the poor fellow, rubbing his tired forehead, as if to polish up his wits. 'I 've thought seriously of going to California, Australia, or some out-of-the-way place, where men get rich in a hurry.'
'Oh, no!' cried Polly, putting out her hand as it to keep him, and then snatching it back again before he could turn round.
'It would be hard on mother and the girls, I suppose; besides, I don't quite like it myself; looks as if I shirked and ran away.'
'So it does,' said Polly, decidedly.
'Well, you see I don't seem to find anything to do unless I turn clerk, and I don't think that would suit. The fact is, I could n't stand it here, where I 'm known. It would be easier to scratch gravel on a railroad, with a gang of Paddies, than to sell pins to my friends and neighbors. False pride, I dare say, but it 's the truth, and there 's no use in dodging.'
'Not a bit, and I quite agree with you.'
