PARMELEE'S "SPREAD"
The room was old-fashioned, a dark-walled parallelogram, the farthestend of which was seldom reached by the light which crept through thetwo small-paned windows. Overhead four huge rafters passed from side toside.
The ledges beneath the windows formed wide seats, which wereupholstered in somber corduroy. The mantel above the large fireplacewas narrow, high, a mere shelf, designed a century ago to hold the twincandlesticks and the snuffers on their silver tray.
The occupant had wisely confined the furnishings to old-style mahoganyin quaint Chippendale forms. The green-shaded student-lamp on the deskunder the heavy bronze chandelier gave almost the only modern touch.Yet with all its gloom, the apartment was singularly homelike andrestful.
Perhaps this thought occurred to Parmelee, '00, as he closed the doorbehind him, for his gaze swept slowly over the room, and he sighedonce as he removed his cap and gown and laid them carefully aside. Hecrossed to one of the windows, and sank back dispiritedly against thecushions.
Parmelee's face, seen in the warm light of a late June afternoon, lostsomething of its usual paleness, but the serious lines about the mouthand the pathos of the deep-set brown eyes were accentuated.
The face, on the whole, was strikingly handsome. The forehead underthe dark hair was broad and high; the nose straight and fairly large;the mouth, despite its grave lines, seemed made for smiles; the chinwas full and firm. Yet the expression now was one of weariness andmelancholy.
Through the open windows came faintly the strains of a waltz from theband in the college yard. Over the top of a vividly green chestnut-treethe western sky was beginning to glow with the colors of sunset. Nowand then a student in cap and gown, or the more brilliant attireappropriate to class-day, hurried past the house; but for the most thelittle street was deserted and still.
Parmelee had done his duty. He had conscientiously taken part inall the exercises of the day, excepting only those about the tree.When the procession that had marched about the yard and cheered thebuildings had dissolved, he had hurried away to his room, lonesome anddownhearted.
Every one seemed so disgustingly happy! Fellows with nice mothers andpretty sisters, cousins or sweethearts appeared to flaunt them beforeParmelee's eyes; fellows hurrying off to somebody's spread thrust himunceremoniously out of the way with muttered apologies. He was so outof it all! He had no womenfolk to take care of, no friends to greet, nospreads to attend. He was simply a nonentity; merely "Parmelee, thathunchbacked fellow."
That was Parmelee's trouble. All his life he had been a "hunchback."As a boy he had often taken flight before the merciless gibes of hiscompanions, too sick at heart to follow his first impulse to stand andfight.
When he had entered the preparatory school he had enclosed himselfin a shell of sensitiveness, and had missed many a friendship thatmight have been his. At college it had been the same. He believedhis deformity to be repellent to others, and credited them withsentiments of distaste or pity, when, as was generally the case, theattractiveness of his countenance made them blind to his defect ofform. Naturally fond of athletics, he believed himself barred fromthem. He made few acquaintances and no friends; no friends, that is,except one.
Philip Schuyler and he had met in their freshman year. Schuyler,refusing to be repelled, had won his way through Parmelee's defenses,and the two had been inseparable until shortly before the lastChristmas recess. Then they had quarreled.
The cause had been such a tiny thing that it is doubtful if eitherstill remembered it. Pride had prevented the reconciliation whichshould have followed, and the two friends had drifted widely apart.
Parmelee sometimes told himself bitterly that Schuyler had made thequarrel an excuse for ending a companionship of which he was wearied.Schuyler had quickly found new friends; Parmelee simply retired moredeeply than before into his shell. It meant more to him, that quarrel,than to Schuyler. He had lost the only real friend of his life. Thewound was a deep one, and it refused to heal. On this day it ached morethan it had for months.
Parmelee glanced at his watch, suddenly realizing that he was hungry.He had missed his lunch. It was yet far from the dinner-hour, he found.
Then he remembered that his boarding-house would be practically givenover that evening to a spread. He shrank from the idea of facing thethrong that would be present. The restaurants would be crowded. Asolitary dinner in town was not attractive. The only alternative was togo dinnerless, or--yes, he could have something here in his room. Hesmiled a trifle bitterly.
"It will be Parmelee's spread," he said.
He went out and turned his steps toward the avenue. In the store hesurprised the clerk by the magnitude of his order. The whimsical ideaof having a spread of his own grew upon him. The expense meant nothingto him.
When he was ready to return, the bundle of his purchases was so largethat for the moment he was dismayed. Then he took it in his arms andretraced his steps.
Back in his room, the first difficulty that confronted him was the lackof a tablecloth, but this was presently solved by spreading two immensewhite bath-towels over the study table. Then he began the distributionof the viands.
The matter of table decoration was something of a problem, and inthe solving of it he forgot his depression, and even whistled a tunewhile trying to decide whether to bank all the oranges together or todistribute them in a sort of border about the edge of the table.
A few plates would have been an aid, but it was possible to do withoutthem. The olives occasioned much bother by refusing to emerge on thepoint of the knife-blade from the narrow neck of their tall bottle.This difficulty was at last obviated by pouring off the brine andemptying the olives upon a sheet of letter-paper. The canned meatsand the glasses of jellies and the tins of crackers he arranged withgeometrical precision, forming stars, circles and diamonds in outline.The oranges formed a pyramid in the center of the board, topped with abunch of vivid radishes.
Parmelee stood off and viewed the result, at first critically, thenwith approval. Displacing the big armchair, he shoved the banquet-tableup to one of the windows, and set a fiddle-backed mahogany chair beforeit. The effect was incongruous, and he chuckled aloud.
"You're the loneliest-looking chair I ever saw!" he exclaimed. "Here,this is better."
He seized another chair and placed it at the opposite side of the table.
"There, that balances. Besides, one should always make provision forthe unexpected guest. Perchance, the president or the dean may drop in."
He gave a final look at the repast and disappeared into the bedroom atthe back. Presently the sound of splashing water told its own story.
At that moment the house door slammed, footsteps sounded in the hall,and there was a knock at Parmelee's door. But Parmelee, rioting at thebasin in the back room, heard nothing. After an interval the knockingwas repeated. Then the knob turned and the door opened.
The visitor was a very erect, white-whiskered man of about fifty,possessing a degree of stoutness that set off to the best advantage hiswell-cut black coat, white waistcoat and gray trousers. His dark eyesgleamed with kindliness and humor.
He held his shining hat and his gloves in his hand, and lookedquestioningly about the room. Then the sound of Parmelee's ablutionscaught his ear, and he took a step forward.
"Is there any one at home?" he called.
Parmelee, in his shirt-sleeves, the water dripping from the end of hisnose, came to the inner doorway, the towel clutched desperately in onehand, and stared with amazement.
"I beg your pardon, sir, for this intrusion," the visitor said."I knocked, and receiving no answer, took the liberty of enteringunbidden. We old graduates lay claim to many privileges on class-day,you know; nothing is sacred to us."
He paused. Parmelee grasped the towel more firmly, as if it were aweapon of defense to be used against the invader, and nodded silently.His gaze fell on the banquet, and amazement gave way to dismay.
"I escaped from my wife and daughter after much sche
ming," continuedthe visitor, "in order to slip down here and have a look at this room.I haven't seen it for--well, not since I graduated, and that wastwenty-nine years ago this month."
"Ah!" Parmelee had found his tongue. "You lived here while in college?"
"Four years. After I entered the law school I roomed in town. But don'tlet me disturb you. I'll just glance round a moment, if I may."
Parmelee's courtesy came to the surface again. The visitor's designswere plainly above suspicion. It was very awkward, but----
"Certainly, sir; just make yourself at home. If you'll pardon me for amoment, I'll get my coat on."
The visitor bowed deprecatingly, and Parmelee disappeared again. Hereentered the study a moment later, to find that the visitor had laidaside his hat and gloves, and, with hands clasped behind him, waslooking from a window across the vista of trees and roofs at the sunsetsky. He turned as Parmelee approached, sighed, smiled apologetically,and waved a hand toward the view.
"I have just accomplished a wonderful feat," he said. "I have wiped outa quarter of a century."
Parmelee smiled politely. "I presume you find things much changed?" heasked.
"Yes, yes; but not here. That view is almost the same as it was when Isat in that window there, studying, reading, dreaming, just as we allwill when we're young; just as I dare say you have done many times."
"But I fancy, sir, your dreams came true."
"My boy, none of our dreams ever come true just as we dream them. Theycouldn't; they are much too grand. I have nothing to complain of andmuch to be happy for, but"--he shook his head, smiling wistfully--"I'mnot the hero of those dreams."
"I suppose it's idle work, picturing the future, dreaming of the greatthings we're going to do," answered Parmelee, soberly; "but--it's hardnot to."
"No, no, don't think that!" The visitor laid a hand for a moment onParmelee's shoulder, then darted a quick look of surprise at theplace his fingers had touched. Parmelee saw it, and a wave of colordyed his face. But the other continued after a pause that was almostimperceptible. "Don't think that, my boy. Life wouldn't be half what itis without dreams. And who knows? Perhaps yours are destined to cometrue. I hope they will."
"They never have," said Parmelee, bitterly.
The older man smiled. "But there's time yet." He turned and walkedslowly about the apartment, nodding his head now and then, viewing thedark rafters as he might have viewed old friends, and putting his headin the bedroom door, but declining Parmelee's invitation to enter.
Reminiscences came to his mind, and he told them lightly, entertainingly.He stood for several moments in front of the empty fireplace, and sighedagain as he turned away.
He moved toward where he had laid his hat and gloves. "I left word withmy wife to tell my son to come here for me, but I don't see him." Hepicked up his hat and looked out into the street. "He took part in thetree exercises; he would have to change his clothes afterward, and thatwould take some time. I dare say if I walk up the street I shall meethim."
Parmelee struggled in silence with his reserve; then he said:
"I--I wish you'd wait here for him, sir. You see, it's just possiblethat you might miss him if you went."
"But you're certain I sha'n't be in the way? Your guests will notarrive for a while?"
"I'm not expecting any one, sir."
"Indeed!" The visitor glanced at the banquet and looked puzzled."Pardon me; I thought you were giving a small spread. I shall be veryglad to remain if I'm not in your way."
He laid aside his hat and took a seat. Parmelee retired to the windowand frowned at the banquet. Of course he had not been asked to explainit, but no other course seemed possible; the situation was ridiculous.He would make a clean breast of it. Somehow it did not seem difficultto tell things to the kind-faced stranger.
"I dare say you think I'm crazy," he said, "with all that stuff spreadout there and--and nobody coming, but--" And then he explained things,although not very lucidly, for he was disturbed by a realization of theabsurdity of the affair. But the visitor seemed to understand, and whenParmelee had ended, he exclaimed, with concern:
"Why, then I've been keeping you from your supper! And no lunch, yousay? I'd no idea, I assure you--" He seized his hat again. Parmeleesprang to his feet.
"No, no, I'm not in the least hungry! That is, I'm in no hurry."
The older man hesitated.
"But if you've had no lunch, you must be starved! Indeed, I'm sure youmust be! I can appreciate your condition in a measure, for my own lunchwas a sorry affair, although I did get a few bites. Don't let me keepyou a moment longer."
"But--but--" exclaimed Parmelee. The visitor paused with his hand onthe door-knob. "Perhaps--you must be hungry yourself, and--if youwouldn't mind the lack of knives and forks--and plates--I'd be awfullyglad----"
"Well, really now, I've half a mind to accept," laughed the other."The truth is, I'm as hungry as a bear. These boarding-houses onclass-day--" He shook his head expressively. "You are sure I'm nottaking some one else's place?"
"No, indeed," answered Parmelee. "The fact is, I set that chair therefor you half an hour ago."
"For me?" inquired the visitor.
"Well, for the unexpected guest. You see, sir, the one chair looked solonely. Have you room enough? Shall I move the desk out a bit? It'sawkward having no plates--or forks--or anything. If you will take thispenknife, sir? And--wait a moment! The very thing!"
Parmelee excitedly seized two old blue plates from over the mantel,dusted them on a corner of the nearest bath-towel, and presented oneto the guest.
"Queer I didn't think of these, isn't it? I think you'll find thatsliced chicken very fair. Do you eat olives? I've never tried coldSaratoga chips myself, but they look rather good."
He proffered one article after another in a very fever of hospitality.In his eagerness he distributed the olives impartially over the wholeboard and brought the _piece de resistance_, the pyramid of oranges,tumbling into ruins.
The guest laid down his pocket-knife and looked gravely across at hishost.
"Is--is anything the matter?" faltered Parmelee.
"I must refuse to go on until I see you eating something."
"Oh!" Parmelee blushed and seized a tin of potted turkey at random.After that the banquet progressed finely. The unexpected guest did fulljustice to the repast, and the unaccustomed host remembered his ownhunger and satisfied it. More than that, he forgot his shyness and wasradiantly happy. And after a while, when the last of the strawberrieshad disappeared, he suddenly found himself telling, in the most naturalway in the world, things that he had never told any one before, except,perhaps, Philip Schuyler. He stopped short in the middle of a sentencein sudden embarrassment.
"And so your deformity, such a little thing as it is, has worked allthis--this misery?" mused the guest. "Dear, dear, such a pity, my boy,so unnecessary!"
"Unnecessary?" faltered Parmelee.
"Surely. You've been so mistaken when you have credited all kinds ofunpleasant sentiments to people. They can't care any the less for youbecause your back is not as straight as theirs. The fault has beenyours, my boy; you haven't given people a chance to get near to you.You've held them off at arm's length all your life. Take my advice.After this go out among them; forget your suspicions, and see foryourself if I'm not right. When God put a hump between your shouldershe made up for it in some other way, you may depend upon that. Andalthough I've known you but an hour, I think I know wherein the Lordhas made it up to you. But I'm not going to tell you; it might make youvain."
Parmelee raised his own eyes to the smiling ones across the table.
"I don't think you need have any apprehensions on that score, sir," hesaid, a trifle unsteadily.
"Well, perhaps not. I dare say you need a little more vanity. But thinkover what I've said, and if you can, act on it."
"I will," answered the other, earnestly. "And I'm--I'm very grateful. Idon't think I ever--looked at it quite that way, you see."
"I
'm certain you never have. And another thing; I wouldn't be tooquick to bring in a verdict in the case of that friend you've told meof. I think when you learn the truth you'll find you've done him aninjustice. And forgive me if I hurt you, my boy, but I think you'vebeen more to blame than he has. It seems to me that you were the oneto take the first step toward reconciliation. Well, I really must begoing to hunt up my family. They'll think I'm lost. I don't know what'shappened to Philip, I'm sure."
"Philip?" asked Parmelee, quickly.
"My son," answered the visitor, proudly. "He graduates this spring.Philip Schuyler. Perhaps you've met him?"
"I----"
There was a knock at the door. Parmelee drew himself up very straight,perhaps to give the lie to the pallor of his face.
"Come in!" he called, and the door swung open.
The youth who confronted them looked with white, set face from one tothe other. There was an instant of awkward silence. Then, "Father!" heexclaimed, in a low voice.
"Why, Philip, what's the matter?" Parmelee's guest moved quickly to thedoor. "Did you think I was lost?"
The son laughed uneasily.
"I didn't know you were coming here; I only learned it from mother afew minutes ago." It sounded like an apology, and the older man lookedapprehensively from his son to his host.
"But was there--any reason why I shouldn't have come here, Phil?"
Philip Schuyler glanced from his father to Parmelee's set face, thendropped his eyes.
"Of course not, sir," he replied. "It was only that I didn't know butI'd miss you. Such a crowd in town!" he muttered.
"That's all right, then," said his father. "And now I want to make youacquainted with a friend of mine. I've only had the honor of callinghim such for an hour or so; but two persons can become pretty wellacquainted in that time, especially over the table," he added, smiling."Phil, this is--but, dear me, I don't know your name!"
"John Parmelee," answered his host.
"Ah, Phil, this is Mr. Parmelee, who has been exceedingly kind and hasministered to my wants, outward and inward. I want you to know him.Somehow I have an idea you two youngsters will get on together. Mr.Parmelee, this is my son, Philip."
Philip bowed without moving from his place at the door. Parmelee gave agulp and strode forward, his hand outstretched.
"We--we're not new acquaintances, Mr. Schuyler," he said.
"Ah!" The older man watched while the two shook hands constrainedly."Ah!" he repeated. It was a very expressive word as he uttered it, andParmelee, glancing at his face, saw that he understood the situation.The two unclasped their hands, and for a moment viewed each otherdoubtfully.
"If you know each other, that makes simpler the request I was about tomake," said Parmelee's guest. "I want Mr. Parmelee to come and makeus a visit for a week or so, Phil. I think the North Shore sunshinewill take some of that white out of his face. Just see if you can'tpersuade him, won't you?" He turned away toward the window. The two atthe doorway looked at each other for an instant in silence. Then PhilipSchuyler put out his hand, and Parmelee grasped it.
"You'll come?" asked Philip, softly. Parmelee nodded.
"If you want me."
"Of course I do! And, I say, Jack, it's--it's all right now, isn't it?"
"Yes, Phil; it was never anything else," answered Parmelee, a triflehuskily. The two gripped hands silently, smilingly, and turned to Mr.Schuyler.
"Are you ready, dad?"
"Eh? Oh, yes. And, Mr. Parmelee, perhaps you wouldn't mind joining us?I'd like you to meet Phil's mother and sister. It--it might be a goodchance to test the value of my advice, eh?" Parmelee hesitated for amoment, then took up his gown.
"Thank you, sir, I think it might," he said.
Arrival of Jimpson, and Other Stories for Boys about Boys Page 4
