MR. PARCELL’S LESSON
Polly carried the portfolio home with
her, and later, alone in her room, read the poems
it contained. Tears blurred her eyes as she
read and read again the verses dated the day before.
Such a lilting, joyous song it was! And now !
“Oh, but she will get well and
write again!” Polly said softly. Then she
sighed, thinking of the bright plans that had so suddenly
ceased.
Her thoughts went farther back, to the days of watching and
waiting for the message that had never come, to the sleepless nights of grieving
“Oh!” she burst out impetuously,
“he’s got to know it! Somebody must
tell him how he has made her suffer! Miss Nita
would do it beautifully; but I don’t suppose
I could hire her to! Maybe father will.”
When this suggestion was made to him,
however, Dr. Dudley shook his head promptly, and his
impulsive daughter began at once to form other plans.
“Mother wouldn’t,” she told herself.
“No use asking her. Dear! dear! if there
were only somebody besides me! Perhaps I can
coax Miss Nita
A telephone call broke in upon her
musings, and the disturbing thoughts were exchanged
for a ride and a luncheon with Patricia Illingworth.
On her way home in the afternoon, the matter came
up again.
“I may as well go now and have
it over with,” she decided suddenly, and she
turned into a street which led to the home of the Reverend
Norman Parcell.
Yes, he was in and alone, the maid
said, and Polly was shown directly to the study.
“How do you do, Miss Polly!”
The minister grasped her hand cordially. “This
is a pleasant surprise.” He drew forward
an easy chair and saw her comfortably seated.
“Have you heard that Miss Twining
is ill?” Polly began.
“Miss Twining?” he repeated
interrogatively. “M-m no, I
had not heard. Is she an especial friend of
yours, some one I ought to know?” He smiled
apologetically. “I find it difficult always
to place people on the instant.”
His apology might not have been attended
by a smile if Polly’s indignant thought had
been vocal. When she spoke, her voice was tense.
“Yes, Mr. Parcell, she is a
very dear friend.” Her lip quivered, and
she shook herself mentally; she was not going to break
down at this juncture. She went quickly on, ahead
of the phrase of sympathy on its way to the minister’s
lips. “She lives at the June Holiday Home.”
“Oh, yes! I remember!
Her illness is not serious, I hope.”
“I am afraid so,” returned
Polly, passing quickly toward what she had come to
talk about. “I don’t suppose you
know what a beautiful woman she is.” She
looked straight into his eyes, and waited.
“No,” he answered slowly,
a suggestion of doubt in his tone, “I presume
not. I have seen her only occasionally.”
“She told me that you called
upon her every year or two.” Polly hesitated.
“You can judge something by her poems.
You received the book of poems she sent you?”
“Oh, yes!” he brightened. “I
have the book.”
“How do you like it, Mr. Parcell?
Don’t you think the poems wonderful?”
Polly was sitting very straight in the cushioned
chair, her brown eyes fixed keenly on the minister’s
face.
“Why,” he moved
a little uneasily “I really don’t
know ” He threw back his head with
a little smile. “To be frank, Miss Polly,
I haven’t read them.”
Something flashed into the young face
opposite that startled the man.
“Do you mean, Mr. Parcell,”
Polly said slowly, “that you have not read the
book at all?” Her emphasis made her thought
clear, and his cheeks reddened.
“I shall have to own up to my
neglect,” he replied. “You know I
am a very busy man, Miss Polly.”
“You needn’t bother with
the ‘Miss,’” she answered; “nobody
does. Then, that is why you haven’t said
’thank you’ you don’t
feel ’thank you’!”
“Oh, my dear Polly! I
am very grateful to Miss Twining, I assure you, and
I realize that I should have sent her a note of thanks;
but in fact, I don’t recollect just
how it was I presume I was waiting until
I had read the book, and I may as well confess
it! I was somewhat afraid to read it.”
“Afraid?” Polly looked puzzled.
“Such things are apt to be dreary
reading,” he smiled. “I am rather
a crank as regards poetry.”
The flash came again into Polly’s
face. “Oh!” she cried, fine scorn
in her voice, “you thought the poems weren’t
good!”
He found himself nodding mechanically.
“Where is the book?” she demanded, glancing
about the room.
“I really don’t
know where I did leave it ” He scanned
his cases with a troubled frown.
Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes.
She seemed to see Alice Twining’s gentle, appealing
face, as it had looked when she said, “I hope
he doesn’t think I am presumptuous in sending
it.” She dashed away the drops, and went
on glancing along the rows of books. The minister
had risen, but Polly darted ahead of him and pounced
upon a small volume.
“Here it is!” She touched
it caressingly, as if to make up for recent neglect.
“Your eyes are quicker than
mine,” said Mr. Parcell, taking it from her
hand.
“Read it!” she said, and went back to
her chair,
The minister obeyed meekly. Polly’s eyes
did not leave him.
He had opened the book at random,
and with deepened color and a disturbed countenance
had done as he was bidden. Surprise, pleasure,
astonishment, delight, all these the watcher
saw in the face above the pages.
Five minutes went by, ten, twenty;
still the Reverend Norman Parcell read on! Polly,
mouse-quiet, divided her softening gaze between the
clergyman and the clock. The pointers had crept
almost to four when the telephone called. The
reader answered. Then he walked slowly back
from the instrument and picked up the book.
“Miss Twining must be a remarkable
woman,” he began, “to write such poetry
as this for it is poetry!”
“She is remarkable,” replied
Polly quietly. “She is finer even than
her poems.”
The minister nodded acquiescently.
“This ‘Peter the Great,’”
he went on, running over the leaves, “is a marvelous
thing!”
“Isn’t it! If you
could have told her that” Polly’s
tone was gentle “it would have spared
her a lot of suffering.”
“Has she so poor an opinion of her work?
“Oh, not that exactly; but” she
smiled sadly “you have never said
‘thank you’, you know!”
The lines on his face deepened.
“I have been unpardonably rude, and have done
Miss Twining an injustice besides I am sorry,
very sorry!”
“She had had pretty hard experiences
in giving away her books, but I persuaded her to send
one to you, for I knew you liked poetry and I thought
you would appreciate it. I was sorry afterwards
that I did. It only brought her more disappointment.
She cried and cried because she did not hear from
you. I’m afraid I ought not to tell you
this she wouldn’t let me if she knew.
But I thought if you could just write her a little
note she isn’t allowed to see anybody it
might do her good and help her to get well.”
“I certainly will, my dear!
I shall be glad to do so!”
“You see,” Polly went
on, “she fears that perhaps you scorn her book
and consider her presuming to send it to you and
that is what hurts. She has lain awake nights
and grieved so over it, I could have cried for her!”
Polly was near crying now.
“The worst of such mistakes,”
the man said sorrowfully, “is that we cannot
go back and blot out the tears and the suffering and
make things as they might have been. If we only
could!”
“A note from you will make her
very happy,” Polly smiled.
“She shall have it at once,”
the minister promised; adding, “I am glad she
is in so beautiful a Home.”
Polly shook her head promptly.
“No, Mr. Parcell, it is not a beautiful Home,
it is a prison a horrible prison!”
“Why, my dear! I do not understand
“I don’t want you to understand!”
Polly cried hurriedly. “I ought not to
have said that! Only it came out! You will
know, Mr. Parcell, before long people shall
know! I won’t have oh, I mustn’t
say any more! Don’t tell a word of this,
Mr. Parcell. Promise me you won’t!”
“My dear child,” the
man gazed at her as if he doubted her sanity, “tell
me what the trouble is! Perhaps I shall be able
to help matters.”
“Oh, no, you can’t!
It must work out! I am going to see Mr. Randolph
as soon as I can. But please promise
me not to say a word about it to anybody!”
“I shall certainly repeat nothing
that you have told me. Indeed, there is little
I could say; I do not understand it at all. I
supposed the June Holiday Home was a model in every
respect.”
Polly shook her head sadly.
“I am there every day, Mr. Parcell,
and I know! The ladies are lovely most
of them. They can’t say a word, or they’d
be turned out, and I’ve kept still too long!
But I mustn’t tell you any more.”
Polly drew a long breath. “I must go now,
Mr. Parcell. I am so glad you like Miss Twining’s
poems! And you’ll forgive me, won’t
you, for all I have said?”
“There is nothing to forgive, my dear.”
“I don’t know, maybe I’ve
said too much; but I knew you must have lots of presents,
and I kept thinking of those people that perhaps you
wouldn’t thank, and I felt somebody must tell
you, and there wasn’t anybody else to do it.
Then, as I said, I hoped you would like Miss Twining’s
poems well enough to tell her so. And I just
had to come!”
“Polly, I am glad you came!”
An unmistakable break in the minister’s voice
turned Polly’s eyes away. “I have
been inexcusably thoughtless, not only this time but
many a time before. I am grateful that I still
have the opportunity to give my thanks to Miss Twining.”
“And you can say ‘thank
you’ to the next one!” cried Polly eagerly.
“Yes, I shall always remember you
may be sure of that. I shall not forget my lesson!”
They had reached the door, and Polly
shook hands with him and said good-bye.
She went straight to Miss Sterling.
“Well, it’s done!” she said soberly,
taking her favorite seat.
“What is done?”
“My talk with Mr. Parcell”
“Did you go?”
“Yes, I had to. Father wouldn’t.”
“What did you say? How did he take it?
Tell me!”
“Oh, he took it all right!
I guess he didn’t really like it at first.
I was pretty hard on him, I suppose. But he
needed it! I didn’t go there to give him
sugar-plums!”
“Polly!”
“Well, I didn’t!
It had got to be said, and I thought I might as well
say it plain at the start!”
“Oh, Polly! Polly!” Miss Sterling
chuckled softly.
“Why, Miss Nita, you’re
laughing!” Polly’s tone was reproachful.
“There isn’t anything to laugh at.
I almost cried, and so did he!”
“Dear, forgive me! But I couldn’t
help seeing the funny side.”
“There isn’t any funny side!”
“Go on! I won’t offend again.”
“There is not much to tell.
Oh, I do wish Miss Twining could have heard him praise
her poems after he had read them!
Do you know, Miss Nita, he hadn’t even looked
in the book! He thought it was trash not
worth his while! Think of it those
lovely poems! But I found the book for him He
didn’t even remember where he’d put it! and
I told him to read it, and he did!”
“Polly! you mean you asked him!”
“I guess I told him all right I
was mad just about then. And he read steady,
by the clock, ’most twenty-five minutes!
I don’t know as he’d have stopped by
now if the telephone hadn’t rung.”
“And he liked them?”
“Oh, he thinks they’re
beautiful! He was awfully sorry he hadn’t
thanked her I know he was! But he
is going to write her a note, and I told him he could
say ‘thank you’ to the next one, and he
said he should.”
Juanita Sterling disgraced herself
the second time. She dropped back in her chair
with a stifled laugh.
“Miss Nita!” began Polly plaintively.
“I know, dear! But to
think of your saying such things to that dignified
man!” She chuckled again.
“Don’t, Miss Nita!
It hurts. His dignity is all on the outside,
I guess. Anyway, it went off before I left.”
“Oh, Polly!”
“I don’t see a thing to laugh at.
It was as solemn as as a sermon.”
“I rather think it was a sermon to
him!”
“Perhaps. Anyway, I’m glad I went.”
“I wonder that your father and mother allowed
you to go.”
Polly smiled, a tiny, flushed smile. “They
don’t know it.”
“Why, Polly Dudley!”
“Well, it had to be done, and
there was nobody but me to do it. I didn’t
dare say anything beforehand, for fear they wouldn’t
let me. Now I’m going home, to tell them
all about it.”
Miss Sterling smiled. “You’ll
do, Polly! When I have a hard errand on hand,
I’ll commit it to you.”