EDGAR DISCOURSES OF SCARLET RUNNERS.
One day, in the middle of October, the mail brought Polly two letters:
the first from Edgar, who often dashed off cheery scrawls in the hope
of getting cheery replies, which never came; and the second from Mrs.
Bird, who had a plan to propose.
Edgar wrote:--
. . . "I have a new boarding-place in San Francisco, a stone's throw
from Mrs. Bird's, whose mansion I can look down upon from a lofty
height reached by a flight of fifty wooden steps,--good training in
athletics! Mrs. Morton is a kind landlady and the house is a home, in
a certain way,--
"But oh, the difference to me
'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee!
"There is a Morton girl, too; but she neither plays nor sings nor
jokes, nor even looks,--in fine, she is not Polly! I have come to the
conclusion, now, that girls in a house are almost always nuisances,--I
mean, of course, when, they are not Pollies. Oh, why are you so young,
and so loaded with this world's goods, that you will never need me for
a boarder again? Mrs. Bird is hoping to see you soon, and I chose my
humble lodging on this hill-top because, from my attic's lonely height,
I can watch you going in and out of your 'marble halls;' and you will
almost pass my door as you take the car. In view of this pleasing
prospect (now, alas! somewhat distant), I send you a scrap of newspaper
verse which prophesies my sentiments. It is signed 'M. E. W.,' and Tom
Mills says whoever wrote it knows you."
WHEN POLLY GOES BY.
'T is but poorly I 'm lodged in a little side-street,
Which is seldom disturbed by the hurry of feet,
For the flood-tide of life long ago ebbed away
From its homely old houses, rain-beaten and gray;
And I sit with my pipe in the window, and sigh
At the buffets of fortune--till Polly goes by.
There 's a flaunting of ribbons, a flurry of lace,
And a rose in the bonnet above a bright face,
A glance from two eyes so deliriously blue
The midsummer seas scarcely rival their hue;
And once in a while, if the wind 's blowing high,
The sound of soft laughter as Polly goes by.
Then up jumps my heart and begins to beat fast.
"She 's coming!" it whispers. "She 's here!
She has passed!"
While I throw up the sash and lean breathlessly down
To catch the last glimpse of her vanishing gown,
Excited, delighted, yet wondering why
My senses desert me if Polly goes by.
Ah! she must be a witch, and the magical spell
She has woven about me has done its work well,
For the morning grows brighter, and gayer the air
That my landlady sings as she sweeps down the stair;
And my poor lonely garret, up close to the sky,
Seems something like heaven when Polly goes by.
"P. S. Tony has returned to the university. He asked after the health
of the 'sunset-haired goddess' yesterday. You 'd better hurry back and
take care of me! No, joking aside, don't worry about me, little
missionary; I 've outgrown Tony, and I hope I don't need to be reformed
oftener than once a year.
"Yours ever, EDGAR.
"P. S. No. II. I saw you twice after--you know--and I was dumb on both
occasions. Of all people in the world I ought to have been able to say
something helpful to you in your trouble, I, who lived with you and
your dear mother through all those happy months before she left us. It
will be just the same when I see you again: I shall never be able to
speak, partly, I suppose, because I am a man, or on the road to
becoming one. I know this is making you cry; I can see the tears in
your eyes across all the distance; but it is better even that you
should cry than that you should think me cold or unmindful of your
sorrow. Do you know one of the sacred memories of my life? It is
that, on that blessed night when your mother asked me to come and live
under her roof, she said she should be glad to feel that in any sudden
emergency you and she would, have a near friend to lean upon. There
was a 'royal accolade,' if you like! I felt in an instant as if she
had bestowed the order of knighthood upon me, and as if I must live
more worthily in order to deserve her trust. How true it is, Polly,
that those who believe in us educate us!
"Do you remember (don't cry, dear!) that night by the fireside,--the
night when we brought her out of her bedroom after three days of
illness,--when we sat on either side of her, each holding a hand while
she told us the pretty romance of her meeting and loving your father?
I slipped the loose wedding ring up and down her finger, and stole a
look at her now and then. She was like a girl when she told that
story, and I could not help thinking it was worth while to be a tender,
honorable, faithful man, to bring that look into a woman's face after
eighteen years. Well, I adored her, that is all I can say; and I can't
_say_ even that, I have to write it. Don't rob me, Polly, of the right
she gave me, that of being a 'near friend to lean upon.' I am only
afraid, because you, more than any one else, know certain weaknesses
and follies of mine, and, indeed, pulled me out of the pit and held me
up till I got a new footing. I am afraid you will never have the same
respect for me, nor believe that a fellow so weak as I was could be
strong enough to lean upon. Try me once, Polly, just to humor me,
won't you? Give me something to do,--something _hard_! Lean just a
little, Polly, and see how stiff I 'll be,--no, bother it, I won't be
stiff, I'll be firm! To tell the truth, I can never imagine you as
'leaning;' though they say you are pale and sad, and out of sorts with
life. You remind me of one of the gay scarlet runners that climb up
the slender poles in the garden below my window. The pole holds up the
vine at first, of course, but the vine keeps the pole straight; not in
any ugly and commonplace fashion, but by winding round, and round about
it, and hanging its blossoms in and out and here and there, till the
poor, serviceable pole is forgotten in the beauty that makes use of it.
"Good-by, little scarlet runner! You will bloom again some day, when
the storm that has beaten you down has passed over and the sky is clear
and the sun warm. Don't laugh at me, Polly!
"Always yours, whether you laugh or not,
"EDGAR."
"P. S. No. III. I should n't dare add this third postscript if you
were near enough to slay me with the lightning of your eye, but I
simply wish to mention that a wise gardener chooses young, strong
timber for _poles_,--saplings, in fact! _Mr. John Bird is too old for
this purpose_. Well seasoned he is, of course, and suitable as a prop
for a century-plant, but not for a scarlet runner! I like him, you
know, but I 'm sure he 'd crack if you leaned on him; in point of fact,
he 's a little cracked now! E. N."
The ghost of a smile shone on Polly's April face as she folded Edgar's
letter and laid it in its envelope; first came a smile, then a tear,
then a dimple, then a sob, then a wave of bright color.
"Edgar is growing up so fast," she thought, "I shall soon be afraid to
scold him or advise him, and
"'What will poor Robin do then, poor thing?'
"Upon my word, if I caught him misbehaving nowadays, I believe I should
hesitate to remonstrate with him. He will soon be capable of
remonstrating with me, at this rate. He is a goose,--oh, there 's no
shadow of doubt as to that, but he 's an awfully nice goose."
Mrs. Bird's letter ran thus:--
"MY DEAREST POLLYKINS:----We have lived without you just about as long
as we can endure it. The boys have returned to school and college.
Mr. Bird contemplates one more trip to Honolulu, and brother John and I
need some one to coddle and worry over. I have not spoken to you of
your future, because I wished to wait until you opened the subject. It
is too late for you to begin your professional training this year, and
I think you are far too delicate just now to undertake so arduous a
work; however, you are young, and that can wait for a bit. As to the
story-telling in the hospitals and asylums, I wish you could find
courage and strength to go on with that, not for your own sake alone,
but for the sake of others.
"As I have told you before, the money is set aside for that special
purpose, and the work will be carried on by somebody. Of course I can
get a substitute if you refuse, and that substitute may, after a little
time, satisfy the impatient children, who flatten their noses against
the window-panes and long for Mias Pauline every day of their meagre
lives. But I fear the substitute will never be Polly! She may 'rattle
round in your place' (as somebody said under different circumstances),
but she can never fill it! Why not spend the winter with us, and do
this lovely work, keeping up other studies if you are strong enough?
It will be so sweet for you to feel that out of your own sadness you
can comfort and brighten the lives of these lonely, suffering children
and these motherless or fatherless ones. It will seem hard to begin,
no doubt; but new life will flow in your veins when you take up your
active, useful work again. The joyousness that God put into your soul
before you were born, my Polly, is a sacred trust. You must not hide
it in a napkin, dear, or bury it, or lose it. It was given to you only
that you should share it with others. It was intended for the world at
large, though it was bestowed upon you in particular. Come, dear, to
one who knows all about it,--one whom you are sweet enough to call
"YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER."
"Mrs. Noble," said Polly, with a sober smile, "the Ancon sails on the
20th, and I am going to sail with her."
"So soon? What for, dear?"
"I am going to be a banian-tree, if you please," answered Polly.