He had not the least suspicion of what had been going on at home, for Fan had said to herself, with girlish malice, 'If he don't choose to tell me his secrets, I 'm not going to tell mine,' and had said nothing about Sydney, except an occasional allusion to his being often there, and very kind. Therefore, when she announced her engagement, Tom looked so staggered for a minute, that Fan thought he did n't like it; but after the first surprise passed, he showed such an affectionate satisfaction, that she was both touched and flattered.
'What do you think of this performance?' asked Tom, wheeling round to Polly, who still sat by Mrs. Shaw, in the shadow of the bed-curtains.
'I like it very much,' she said in such a hearty tone, that Tom could not doubt the genuineness of her pleasure.
'Glad of that. Hope you 'll be as well pleased with another engagement that 's coming out before long'; and with an odd laugh, Tom carried Sydney off to his den, leaving the girls to telegraph to one another the awful message, 'It is Maria Bailey.'
How she managed to get through that evening, Polly never knew, yet it was not a long one, for at eight o'clock she slipped out of the room, meaning to run home alone, and not compel any one to serve as escort. But she did not succeed, for as she stood warming her rubbers at the dining-room fire, wondering pensively as she did so if Maria Bailey had small feet, and if Tom ever put her rubbers on for her, the little overshoes were taken out of her hands, and Tom's voice said, reproachfully, 'Did you really mean to run away, and not let me go home with you?'
'I 'm not afraid; I did n't want to take you away,' began Polly, secretly hoping that she did n't look too pleased.
'But I like to be taken away. Why, it 's a whole year since I went home with you; do you remember that?' said Tom, flapping the rubbers about without any signs of haste.
'Does it seem long?'
'Everlasting!'
Polly meant to say that quite easily, and smile incredulously at his answer; but in spite of the coquettish little rose-colored hood she wore, and which she knew was very becoming, she did not look or speak gayly, and Tom saw something in the altered face that made him say hastily, 'I 'm afraid you 've been doing too much this winter; you look tired out, Polly.'
'Oh, no! it suits me to be very busy,' and she began to drag on her gloves as if to prove it.
'But it does n't suit me to have you get thin and pale, you know.'
Polly looked up to thank him, but never did, for there was 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.
