Pollyanna did not go to school “to-morrow,” nor the “day after to-morrow.” Pollyanna, however, did not realize this, except momentarily when a brief period of full consciousness sent insistent questions to her lips. Pollyanna did not realize anything, in fact, very clearly until a week had passed; then the fever subsided, the pain lessened somewhat, and her mind awoke to full consciousness. She had then to be told all over again what had occurred.
“And so it's hurt that I am, and not sick,” she sighed at last. “Well, I'm glad of that.”
“G-glad, Pollyanna?” asked her aunt, who was sitting by the bed.
“Yes. I'd so much rather have broken legs like Mr. Pendleton's than life-long-invalids like Mrs. Snow, you know. Broken legs get well, and lifelong-invalids don't.”
Miss Polly—who had said nothing whatever about broken legs—got suddenly to her feet and walked to the little dressing table across the room. She was picking up one object after another now, and putting each down, in an aimless fashion quite unlike her usual decisiveness. Her face was not aimless-looking at all, however; it was white and drawn.
On the bed Pollyanna lay blinking at the dancing band of colors on the ceiling, which came from one of the prisms in the window.
“I'm glad it isn't smallpox that ails me, too,” she murmured contentedly. “That would be worse than freckles. And I'm glad 'tisn't whooping cough—I've had that, and it's horrid—and I'm glad 'tisn't appendicitis nor measles, 'cause they're catching—measles are, I mean—and they wouldn't let you stay here.”
“You seem to—to be glad for a good many things, my dear,” faltered Aunt Polly, putting her hand to her throat as if her collar bound.
Pollyanna laughed softly.
“I am. I've been thinking of 'em—lots of 'em—all the time I've been looking up at that rainbow. I love rainbows. I'm so glad Mr. Pendleton gave me those prisms! I'm glad of some things I haven't said yet. I don't know but I'm 'most glad I was hurt.”
“Pollyanna!”
Pollyanna laughed softly again. She turned luminous eyes on her aunt. “Well, you see, since I have been hurt, you've called me 'dear' lots of times—and you didn't before. I love to be called 'dear'—by folks that belong to you, I mean. Some of the Ladies' Aiders did call me that; and of course that was pretty nice, but not so nice as if they had belonged to me, like you do. Oh, Aunt Polly, I'm so glad you belong to me!”
Aunt Polly did not answer. Her hand was at her throat again. Her eyes were full of tears. She had turned away and was hurrying from the room through the door by which the nurse had just entered.
It was that afternoon that Nancy ran out to Old Tom, who was cleaning harnesses in the barn. Her eyes were wild.
“Mr. Tom, Mr. Tom, guess what's happened,” she panted. “You couldn't guess in a thousand years—you couldn't, you couldn't!”
“Then I cal'late I won't try,” retorted the man, grimly, “specially as I hain't got more'n TEN ter live, anyhow, probably. You'd better tell me first off, Nancy.”
“Well, listen, then. Who do you s'pose is in the parlor now with the mistress? Who, I say?”
Old Tom shook his head.
“There's no tellin',” he declared.
“Yes, there is. I'm tellin'. It's—John Pendleton!”
“Sho, now! You're jokin', girl.”
“Not much I am—an' me a-lettin' him in myself—crutches an' all! An' the team he come in a-waitin' this minute at the door for him, jest as if he wa'n't the cranky old crosspatch he is, what never talks ter no one! jest think, Mr. Tom—HIM a-callin' on HER!”
“Well, why not?” demanded the old man, a little aggressively.
Nancy gave him a scornful glance.
“As if you didn't know better'n me!” she derided.
“Eh?”
“Oh, you needn't be so innercent,” she retorted with mock indignation; “—you what led me wildgoose chasin' in the first place!”
“What do ye mean?”
Nancy glanced through the open barn door toward the house, and came a step nearer to the old man.
“Listen! 'Twas you that was tellin' me Miss Polly had a lover in the first place, wa'n't it? Well, one day I thinks I finds two and two, and I puts 'em tergether an' makes four. But it turns out ter be five—an' no four at all, at all!”
With a gesture of indifference Old Tom turned and fell to work.
“If you're goin' ter talk ter me, you've got ter talk plain horse sense,” he declared testily. “I never was no hand for figgers.”
Nancy laughed.
“Well, it's this,” she explained. “I heard somethin' that made me think him an' Miss Polly was lovers.”
“MR. PENDLETON!” Old Tom straightened up.
“Yes. Oh, I know now; he wasn't. It was that blessed child's mother he was in love with, and that's why he wanted—but never mind that part,” she added hastily, remembering just in time her promise to Pollyanna not to tell that Mr. Pendleton had wished her to come and live with him. “Well, I've been askin' folks about him some, since, and I've found out that him an' Miss Polly hain't been friends for years, an' that she's been hatin' him like pizen owin' ter the silly gossip that coupled their names tergether when she was eighteen or twenty.”
“Yes, I remember,” nodded Old Tom. “It was three or four years after Miss Jennie give him the mitten and went off with the other chap. Miss Polly knew about it, of course, and was sorry for him. So she tried ter be nice to him. Maybe she overdid it a little—she hated that minister chap so who had took off her sister. At any rate, somebody begun ter make trouble. They said she was runnin' after him.”
“Runnin' after any man—her!” interjected Nancy.
“I know it; but they did,” declared Old Tom, “and of course no gal of any spunk'll stand that. Then about that time come her own lover an' the trouble with HIM. After that she shut up like an oyster an' wouldn't have nothin' ter do with nobody fur a spell. Her heart jest seemed to turn bitter at the core.”
“Yes, I know. I've heard about that now,” rejoined Nancy; “an' that's why you could 'a' knocked me down with a feather when I see HIM at the door—him, what she hain't spoke to for years! But I let him in an' went an' told her.”
“What did she say?” Old Tom held his breath suspended.
“Nothin'—at first. She was so still I thought she hadn't heard; and I was jest goin' ter say it over when she speaks up quiet like: 'Tell Mr. Pendleton I will be down at once.' An' I come an' told him. Then I come out here an' told you,” finished Nancy, casting another backward glance toward the house.
“Humph!” grunted Old Tom; and fell to work again.
In the ceremonious “parlor” of the Harrington homestead, Mr. John Pendleton did not have to wait long before a swift step warned him of Miss Polly's coming. As he attempted to rise, she made a gesture of remonstrance. She did not offer her hand, however, and her face was coldly reserved.
“I called to ask for—Pollyanna,” he began at once, a little brusquely.
“Thank you. She is about the same,” said Miss Polly.
“And that is—won't you tell me HOW she is?” His voice was not quite steady this time.
A quick spasm of pain crossed the woman's face.
“I can't, I wish I could!”
“You mean—you don't know?”
“Yes.”
“But—the doctor?”
“Dr. Warren himself seems—at sea. He is in correspondence now with a New York specialist. They have arranged for a consultation at once.”
“But—but what WERE her injuries that you do know?”
“A slight cut on the head, one or two bruises, and—and an injury to the spine which has seemed to cause—paralysis from the hips down.”
A low cry came from the man. There was a brief silence; then, huskily, he asked:
“And Pollyanna—how does she—take it?”
“She doesn't understand—at all—how things really are. And I CAN'T tell her.”
“But she must know—something!”
Miss Polly lifted her hand to the collar at her throat in the gesture that had become so common to her of late.
“Oh, yes. She knows she can't—move; but she thinks her legs are—broken. She says she's glad it's broken legs like yours rather than 'lifelong-invalids' like Mrs. Snow's; because broken legs get well, and the other—doesn't. She talks like that all the time, until it—it seems as if I should—die!”
Through the blur of tears in his own eyes, the man saw the drawn face opposite, twisted with emotion. Involuntarily his thoughts went back to what Pollyanna had said when he had made his final plea for her presence: “Oh, I couldn't leave Aunt Polly—now!”
It was this thought that made him ask very gently, as soon as he could control his voice:
“I wonder if you know, Miss Harrington, how hard I tried to get Pollyanna to come and live with me.”
“With YOU!—Pollyanna!”
The man winced a little at the tone of her voice; but his own voice was still impersonally cool when he spoke again.
“Yes. I wanted to adopt her—legally, you understand; making her my heir, of course.”
The woman in the opposite chair relaxed a little. It came to her, suddenly, what a brilliant future it would have meant for Pollyanna—this adoption; and she wondered if Pollyanna were old enough and mercenary enough—to be tempted by this man's money and position.
“I am very fond of Pollyanna,” the man was continuing. “I am fond of her both for her own sake, and for—her mother's. I stood ready to give Pollyanna the love that had been twenty-five years in storage.”
“LOVE.” Miss Polly remembered suddenly why SHE had taken this child in the first place—and with the recollection came the remembrance of Pollyanna's own words uttered that very morning: “I love to be called 'dear' by folks that belong to you!” And it was this love-hungry little girl that had been offered the stored-up affection of twenty-five years:—and she was old enough to be tempted by love! With a sinking heart Miss Polly realized that. With a sinking heart, too, she realized something else: the dreariness of her own future now without Pollyanna.
“Well?” she said. And the man, recognizing the self-control that vibrated through the harshness of the tone, smiled sadly.
“She would not come,” he answered.
“Why?”
“She would not leave you. She said you had been so good to her. She wanted to stay with you—and she said she THOUGHT you wanted her to stay,” he finished, as he pulled himself to his feet.
He did not look toward Miss Polly. He turned his face resolutely toward the door. But instantly he heard a swift step at his side, and found a shaking hand thrust toward him.
“When the specialist comes, and I know anything—definite about Pollyanna, I will let you hear from me,” said a trembling voice. “Good-by—and thank you for coming. Pollyanna will be pleased.”
On the day after John Pendleton's call at the Harrington homestead, Miss Polly set herself to the task of preparing Pollyanna for the visit of the specialist.
“Pollyanna, my dear,” she began gently, “we have decided that we want another doctor besides Dr. Warren to see you. Another one might tell us something new to do—to help you get well faster, you know.”
A joyous light came to Pollyanna's face.
“Dr. Chilton! Oh, Aunt Polly, I'd so love to have Dr. Chilton! I've wanted him all the time, but I was afraid you didn't, on account of his seeing you in the sun parlor that day, you know; so I didn't like to say anything. But I'm so glad you do want him!”
Aunt Polly's face had turned white, then red, then back to white again. But when she answered, she showed very plainly that she was trying to speak lightly and cheerfully.
“Oh, no, dear! It wasn't Dr. Chilton at all that I meant. It is a new doctor—a very famous doctor from New York, who—who knows a great deal about—about hurts like yours.”
Pollyanna's face fell.
“I don't believe he knows half so much as Dr. Chilton.”
“Oh, yes, he does, I'm sure, dear.”
“But it was Dr. Chilton who doctored Mr. Pendleton's broken leg, Aunt Polly. If—if you don't mind VERY much, I WOULD LIKE to have Dr. Chilton—truly I would!”
A distressed color suffused Miss Polly's face. For a moment she did not speak at all; then she said gently—though yet with a touch of her old stern decisiveness:
“But I do mind, Pollyanna. I mind very much. I would do anything—almost anything for you, my dear; but I—for reasons which I do not care to speak of now, I don't wish Dr. Chilton called in on—on this case. And believe me, he can NOT know so much about—about your trouble, as this great doctor does, who will come from New York to-morrow.”
Pollyanna still looked unconvinced.
“But, Aunt Polly, if you LOVED Dr. Chilton—”
“WHAT, Pollyanna?” Aunt Polly's voice was very sharp now. Her cheeks were very red, too.
“I say, if you loved Dr. Chilton, and didn't love the other one,” sighed Pollyanna, “seems to me that would make some difference in the good he would do; and I love Dr. Chilton.”
The nurse entered the room at that moment, and Aunt Polly rose to her feet abruptly, a look of relief on her face.
“I am very sorry, Pollyanna,” she said, a little stiffly; “but I'm afraid you'll have to let me be the judge, this time. Besides, it's already arranged. The New York doctor is coming to-morrow.”
As it happened, however, the New York doctor did not come “to-morrow.” At the last moment a telegram told of an unavoidable delay owing to the sudden illness of the specialist himself. This led Pollyanna into a renewed pleading for the substitution of Dr. Chilton—“which would be so easy now, you know.”
But as before, Aunt Polly shook her head and said “no, dear,” very decisively, yet with a still more anxious assurance that she would do anything—anything but that—to please her dear Pollyanna.
As the days of waiting passed, one by one, it did indeed, seem that Aunt Polly was doing everything (but that) that she could do to please her niece.
“I wouldn't 'a' believed it—you couldn't 'a' made me believe it,” Nancy said to Old Tom one morning. “There don't seem ter be a minute in the day that Miss Polly ain't jest hangin' 'round waitin' ter do somethin' for that blessed lamb if 'tain't more than ter let in the cat—an' her what wouldn't let Fluff nor Buff up-stairs for love nor money a week ago; an' now she lets 'em tumble all over the bed jest 'cause it pleases Miss Pollyanna!
“An' when she ain't doin' nothin' else, she's movin' them little glass danglers 'round ter diff'rent winders in the room so the sun'll make the 'rainbows dance,' as that blessed child calls it. She's sent Timothy down ter Cobb's greenhouse three times for fresh flowers—an' that besides all the posies fetched in ter her, too. An' the other day, if I didn't find her sittin' 'fore the bed with the nurse actually doin' her hair, an' Miss Pollyanna lookin' on an' bossin' from the bed, her eyes all shinin' an' happy. An' I declare ter goodness, if Miss Polly hain't wore her hair like that every day now—jest ter please that blessed child!”
Old Tom chuckled.
“Well, it strikes me Miss Polly herself ain't lookin' none the worse—for wearin' them 'ere curls 'round her forehead,” he observed dryly.
“'Course she ain't,” retorted Nancy, indignantly. “She looks like FOLKS, now. She's actually almost—”
“Keerful, now, Nancy!” interrupted the old man, with a slow grin. “You know what you said when I told ye she was handsome once.”
Nancy shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, she ain't handsome, of course; but I will own up she don't look like the same woman, what with the ribbons an' lace jiggers Miss Pollyanna makes her wear 'round her neck.”
“I told ye so,” nodded the man. “I told ye she wa'n't—old.”
Nancy laughed.
“Well, I'll own up she HAIN'T got quite so good an imitation of it—as she did have, 'fore Miss Pollyanna come. Say, Mr. Tom, who WAS her A lover? I hain't found that out, yet; I hain't, I hain't!”
“Hain't ye?” asked the old man, with an odd look on his face. “Well, I guess ye won't then from me.”
“Oh, Mr. Tom, come on, now,” wheedled the girl. “Ye see, there ain't many folks here that I CAN ask.”
“Maybe not. But there's one, anyhow, that ain't answerin',” grinned Old Tom. Then, abruptly, the light died from his eyes. “How is she, ter-day—the little gal?”
Nancy shook her head. Her face, too, had sobered.
“Just the same, Mr. Tom. There ain't no special diff'rence, as I can see—or anybody, I guess. She jest lays there an' sleeps an' talks some, an' tries ter smile an' be 'glad' 'cause the sun sets or the moon rises, or some other such thing, till it's enough ter make yer heart break with achin'.”
“I know; it's the 'game'—bless her sweet heart!” nodded Old Tom, blinking a little.
“She told YOU, then, too, about that 'ere—game?”
“Oh, yes. She told me long ago.” The old man hesitated, then went on, his lips twitching a little. “I was growlin' one day 'cause I was so bent up and crooked; an' what do ye s'pose the little thing said?”
“I couldn't guess. I wouldn't think she could find ANYTHIN' about THAT ter be glad about!”
“She did. She said I could be glad, anyhow, that I didn't have ter STOOP SO FAR TER DO MY WEEDIN' 'cause I was already bent part way over.”
Nancy gave a wistful laugh.
“Well, I ain't surprised, after all. You might know she'd find somethin'. We've been playin' it—that game—since almost the first, 'cause there wa'n't no one else she could play it with—though she did speak of—her aunt.”
“MISS POLLY!”
Nancy chuckled.
“I guess you hain't got such an awful diff'rent opinion o' the mistress than I have,” she bridled.
Old Tom stiffened.
“I was only thinkin' 'twould be—some of a surprise—to her,” he explained with dignity.
“Well, yes, I guess 'twould be—THEN,” retorted Nancy. “I ain't sayin' what 'twould be NOW. I'd believe anythin' o' the mistress now—even that she'd take ter playin' it herself!”
“But hain't the little gal told her—ever? She's told ev'ry one else, I guess. I'm hearin' of it ev'rywhere, now, since she was hurted,” said Tom.
“Well, she didn't tell Miss Polly,” rejoined Nancy. “Miss Pollyanna told me long ago that she couldn't tell her, 'cause her aunt didn't like ter have her talk about her father; an' 'twas her father's game, an' she'd have ter talk about him if she did tell it. So she never told her.”
“Oh, I see, I see.” The old man nodded his head slowly. “They was always bitter against the minister chap—all of 'em, 'cause he took Miss Jennie away from 'em. An' Miss Polly—young as she was—couldn't never forgive him; she was that fond of Miss Jennie—in them days. I see, I see. 'Twas a bad mess,” he sighed, as he turned away.
“Yes, 'twas—all 'round, all 'round,” sighed Nancy in her turn, as she went back to her kitchen.
For no one were those days of waiting easy. The nurse tried to look cheerful, but her eyes were troubled. The doctor was openly nervous and impatient. Miss Polly said little; but even the softening waves of hair about her face, and the becoming laces at her throat, could not hide the fact that she was growing thin and pale. As to Pollyanna—Pollyanna petted the dog, smoothed the cat's sleek head, admired the flowers and ate the fruits and jellies that were sent in to her; and returned innumerable cheery answers to the many messages of love and inquiry that were brought to her bedside. But she, too, grew pale and thin; and the nervous activity of the poor little hands and arms only emphasized the pitiful motionlessness of the once active little feet and legs now lying so woefully quiet under the blankets.
As to the game—Pollyanna told Nancy these days how glad she was going to be when she could go to school again, go to see Mrs. Snow, go to call on Mr. Pendleton, and go to ride with Dr. Chilton nor did she seem to realize that all this “gladness” was in the future, not the present. Nancy, however, did realize it—and cry about it, when she was alone.
Just a week from the time Dr. Mead, the specialist, was first expected, he came. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with kind gray eyes, and a cheerful smile. Pollyanna liked him at once, and told him so.
“You look quite a lot like MY doctor, you see,” she added engagingly.
“YOUR doctor?” Dr. Mead glanced in evident surprise at Dr. Warren, talking with the nurse a few feet away. Dr. Warren was a small, brown-eyed man with a pointed brown beard.
“Oh, THAT isn't my doctor,” smiled Pollyanna, divining his thought. “Dr. Warren is Aunt Polly's doctor. My doctor is Dr. Chilton.”
“Oh-h!” said Dr. Mead, a little oddly, his eyes resting on Miss Polly, who, with a vivid blush, had turned hastily away.
“Yes.” Pollyanna hesitated, then continued with her usual truthfulness. “You see,Iwanted Dr. Chilton all the time, but Aunt Polly wanted you. She said you knew more than Dr. Chilton, anyway about—about broken legs like mine. And of course if you do, I can be glad for that. Do you?”
A swift something crossed the doctor's face that Pollyanna could not quite translate.
“Only time can tell that, little girl,” he said gently; then he turned a grave face toward Dr. Warren, who had just come to the bedside.
Every one said afterward that it was the cat that did it. Certainly, if Fluffy had not poked an insistent paw and nose against Pollyanna's unlatched door, the door would not have swung noiselessly open on its hinges until it stood perhaps a foot ajar; and if the door had not been open, Pollyanna would not have heard her aunt's words.
In the hall the two doctors, the nurse, and Miss Polly stood talking. In Pollyanna's room Fluffy had just jumped to the bed with a little purring “meow” of joy when through the open door sounded clearly and sharply Aunt Polly's agonized exclamation.
“Not that! Doctor, not that! You don't mean—the child—will NEVER WALK again!”
It was all confusion then. First, from the bedroom came Pollyanna's terrified “Aunt Polly Aunt Polly!” Then Miss Polly, seeing the open door and realizing that her words had been heard, gave a low little moan and—for the first time in her life—fainted dead away.
The nurse, with a choking “She heard!” stumbled toward the open door. The two doctors stayed with Miss Polly. Dr. Mead had to stay—he had caught Miss Polly as she fell. Dr. Warren stood by, helplessly. It was not until Pollyanna cried out again sharply and the nurse closed the door, that the two men, with a despairing glance into each other's eyes, awoke to the immediate duty of bringing the woman in Dr. Mead's arms back to unhappy consciousness.
In Pollyanna's room, the nurse had found a purring gray cat on the bed vainly trying to attract the attention of a white-faced, wild-eyed little girl.
“Miss Hunt, please, I want Aunt Polly. I want her right away, quick, please!”
The nurse closed the door and came forward hurriedly. Her face was very pale.
“She—she can't come just this minute, dear. She will—a little later. What is it? Can't I—get it?”
Pollyanna shook her head.
“But I want to know what she said—just now. Did you hear her? I want Aunt Polly—she said something. I want her to tell me 'tisn't true—'tisn't true!”
The nurse tried to speak, but no words came. Something in her face sent an added terror to Pollyanna's eyes.
“Miss Hunt, you DID hear her! It is true! Oh, it isn't true! You don't mean I can't ever—walk again?”
“There, there, dear—don't, don't!” choked the nurse. “Perhaps he didn't know. Perhaps he was mistaken. There's lots of things that could happen, you know.”
“But Aunt Polly said he did know! She said he knew more than anybody else about—about broken legs like mine!”
“Yes, yes, I know, dear; but all doctors make mistakes sometimes. Just—just don't think any more about it now—please don't, dear.”
Pollyanna flung out her arms wildly. “But I can't help thinking about it,” she sobbed. “It's all there is now to think about. Why, Miss Hunt, how am I going to school, or to see Mr. Pendleton, or Mrs. Snow, or—or anybody?” She caught her breath and sobbed wildly for a moment. Suddenly she stopped and looked up, a new terror in her eyes. “Why, Miss Hunt, if I can't walk, how am I ever going to be glad for—ANYTHING?”
Miss Hunt did not know “the game;” but she did know that her patient must be quieted, and that at once. In spite of her own perturbation and heartache, her hands had not been idle, and she stood now at the bedside with the quieting powder ready.
“There, there, dear, just take this,” she soothed; “and by and by we'll be more rested, and we'll see what can be done then. Things aren't half as bad as they seem, dear, lots of times, you know.”
Obediently Pollyanna took the medicine, and sipped the water from the glass in Miss Hunt's hand.
“I know; that sounds like things father used to say,” faltered Pollyanna, blinking off the tears. “He said there was always something about everything that might be worse; but I reckon he'd never just heard he couldn't ever walk again. I don't see how there CAN be anything about that, that could be worse—do you?”
Miss Hunt did not reply. She could not trust herself to speak just then.
It was Nancy who was sent to tell Mr. John Pendleton of Dr. Mead's verdict. Miss Polly had remembered her promise to let him have direct information from the house. To go herself, or to write a letter, she felt to be almost equally out of the question. It occurred to her then to send Nancy.
There had been a time when Nancy would have rejoiced greatly at this extraordinary opportunity to see something of the House of Mystery and its master. But to-day her heart was too heavy to, rejoice at anything. She scarcely even looked about her at all, indeed, during the few minutes, she waited for Mr. John Pendleton to appear.
“I'm Nancy, sir,” she said respectfully, in response to the surprised questioning of his eyes, when he came into the room. “Miss Harrington sent me to tell you about—Miss Pollyanna.”
“Well?”
In spite of the curt terseness of the word, Nancy quite understood the anxiety that lay behind that short “well?”
“It ain't well, Mr. Pendleton,” she choked.
“You don't mean—” He paused, and she bowed her head miserably.
“Yes, sir. He says—she can't walk again—never.”
For a moment there was absolute silence in the room; then the man spoke, in a voice shaken with emotion.
“Poor—little—girl! Poor—little—girl!”
Nancy glanced at him, but dropped her eyes at once. She had not supposed that sour, cross, stern John Pendleton could look like that. In a moment he spoke again, still in the low, unsteady voice.
“It seems cruel—never to dance in the sunshine again! My little prism girl!”
There was another silence; then, abruptly, the man asked:
“She herself doesn't know yet—of course—does she?”
“But she does, sir.” sobbed Nancy, “an' that's what makes it all the harder. She found out—drat that cat! I begs yer pardon,” apologized the girl, hurriedly. “It's only that the cat pushed open the door an' Miss Pollyanna overheard 'em talkin'. She found out—that way.”
“Poor—little—girl!” sighed the man again.
“Yes, sir. You'd say so, sir, if you could see her,” choked Nancy. “I hain't seen her but twice since she knew about it, an' it done me up both times. Ye see it's all so fresh an' new to her, an' she keeps thinkin' all the time of new things she can't do—NOW. It worries her, too, 'cause she can't seem ter be glad—maybe you don't know about her game, though,” broke off Nancy, apologetically.
“The 'glad game'?” asked the man. “Oh, yes; she told me of that.”
“Oh, she did! Well, I guess she has told it generally ter most folks. But ye see, now she—she can't play it herself, an' it worries her. She says she can't think of a thing—not a thing about this not walkin' again, ter be glad about.”
“Well, why should she?” retorted the man, almost savagely.
Nancy shifted her feet uneasily.
“That's the way I felt, too—till I happened ter think—it WOULD be easier if she could find somethin', ye know. So I tried to—to remind her.”
“To remind her! Of what?” John Pendleton's voice was still angrily impatient.
“Of—of how she told others ter play it Mis' Snow, and the rest, ye know—and what she said for them ter do. But the poor little lamb just cries, an' says it don't seem the same, somehow. She says it's easy ter TELL lifelong invalids how ter be glad, but 'tain't the same thing when you're the lifelong invalid yerself, an' have ter try ter do it. She says she's told herself over an' over again how glad she is that other folks ain't like her; but that all the time she's sayin' it, she ain't really THINKIN' of anythin' only how she can't ever walk again.”
Nancy paused, but the man did not speak. He sat with his hand over his eyes.
“Then I tried ter remind her how she used ter say the game was all the nicer ter play when—when it was hard,” resumed Nancy, in a dull voice. “But she says that, too, is diff'rent—when it really IS hard. An' I must be goin', now, sir,” she broke off abruptly.
At the door she hesitated, turned, and asked timidly:
“I couldn't be tellin' Miss Pollyanna that—that you'd seen Jimmy Bean again, I s'pose, sir, could I?”
“I don't see how you could—as I haven't seen him,” observed the man a little shortly. “Why?”
“Nothin', sir, only—well, ye see, that's one of the things that she was feelin' bad about, that she couldn't take him ter see you, now. She said she'd taken him once, but she didn't think he showed off very well that day, and that she was afraid you didn't think he would make a very nice child's presence, after all. Maybe you know what she means by that; but I didn't, sir.”
“Yes, I know—what she means.”
“All right, sir. It was only that she was wantin' ter take him again, she said, so's ter show ye he really was a lovely child's presence. And now she—can't—drat that autymobile! I begs yer pardon, sir. Good-by!” And Nancy fled precipitately.
It did not take long for the entire town of Beldingsville to learn that the great New York doctor had said Pollyanna Whittier would never walk again; and certainly never before had the town been so stirred. Everybody knew by sight now the piquant little freckled face that had always a smile of greeting; and almost everybody knew of the “game” that Pollyanna was playing. To think that now never again would that smiling face be seen on their streets—never again would that cheery little voice proclaim the gladness of some everyday experience! It seemed unbelievable, impossible, cruel.
In kitchens and sitting rooms, and over back-yard fences women talked of it, and wept openly. On street corners and in store lounging-places the men talked, too, and wept—though not so openly. And neither the talking nor the weeping grew less when fast on the heels of the news itself, came Nancy's pitiful story that Pollyanna, face to face with what had come to her, was bemoaning most of all the fact that she could not play the game; that she could not now be glad over—anything.
It was then that the same thought must have, in some way, come to Pollyanna's friends. At all events, almost at once, the mistress of the Harrington homestead, greatly to her surprise, began to receive calls: calls from people she knew, and people she did not know; calls from men, women, and children—many of whom Miss Polly had not supposed that her niece knew at all.
Some came in and sat down for a stiff five or ten minutes. Some stood awkwardly on the porch steps, fumbling with hats or hand-bags, according to their sex. Some brought a book, a bunch of flowers, or a dainty to tempt the palate. Some cried frankly. Some turned their backs and blew their noses furiously. But all inquired very anxiously for the little injured girl; and all sent to her some message—and it was these messages which, after a time, stirred Miss Polly to action.
First came Mr. John Pendleton. He came without his crutches to-day.
“I don't need to tell you how shocked I am,” he began almost harshly. “But can—nothing be done?”
Miss Polly gave a gesture of despair.
“Oh, we're 'doing,' of course, all the time. Dr. Mead prescribed certain treatments and medicines that might help, and Dr. Warren is carrying them out to the letter, of course. But—Dr. Mead held out almost no hope.”
John Pendleton rose abruptly—though he had but just come. His face was white, and his mouth was set into stern lines. Miss Polly, looking at him, knew very well why he felt that he could not stay longer in her presence. At the door he turned.
“I have a message for Pollyanna,” he said. “Will you tell her, please, that I have seen Jimmy Bean and—that he's going to be my boy hereafter. Tell her I thought she would be—GLAD to know. I shall adopt him, probably.”
For a brief moment Miss Polly lost her usual well-bred self-control.
“You will adopt Jimmy Bean!” she gasped.
The man lifted his chin a little.
“Yes. I think Pollyanna will understand. You will tell her I thought she would be—GLAD!”
“Why, of—of course,” faltered Miss Polly.
“Thank you,” bowed John Pendleton, as he turned to go.
In the middle of the floor Miss Polly stood, silent and amazed, still looking after the man who had just left her. Even yet she could scarcely believe what her ears had heard. John Pendleton ADOPT Jimmy Bean? John Pendleton, wealthy, independent, morose, reputed to be miserly and supremely selfish, to adopt a little boy—and such a little boy?
With a somewhat dazed face Miss Polly went up-stairs to Pollyanna's room.
“Pollyanna, I have a message for you from Mr. John Pendleton. He has just been here. He says to tell you he has taken Jimmy Bean for his little boy. He said he thought you'd be glad to know it.”
Pollyanna's wistful little face flamed into sudden joy.
“Glad? GLAD? Well, I reckon I am glad! Oh, Aunt Polly, I've so wanted to find a place for Jimmy—and that's such a lovely place! Besides, I'm so glad for Mr. Pendleton, too. You see, now he'll have the child's presence.”
“The—what?”
Pollyanna colored painfully. She had forgotten that she had never told her aunt of Mr. Pendleton's desire to adopt her—and certainly she would not wish to tell her now that she had ever thought for a minute of leaving her—this dear Aunt Polly!
“The child's presence,” stammered Pollyanna, hastily. “Mr. Pendleton told me once, you see, that only a woman's hand and heart or a child's presence could make a—a home. And now he's got it—the child's presence.”
“Oh, I—see,” said Miss Polly very gently; and she did see—more than Pollyanna realized. She saw something of the pressure that was probably brought to bear on Pollyanna herself at the time John Pendleton was asking HER to be the “child's presence,” which was to transform his great pile of gray stone into a home. “I see,” she finished, her eyes stinging with sudden tears.
Pollyanna, fearful that her aunt might ask further embarrassing questions, hastened to lead the conversation away from the Pendleton house and its master.
“Dr. Chilton says so, too—that it takes a woman's hand and heart, or a child's presence, to make a home, you know,” she remarked.
Miss Polly turned with a start.
“DR. CHILTON! How do you know—that?”
“He told me so. 'Twas when he said he lived in just rooms, you know—not a home.”
Miss Polly did not answer. Her eyes were out the window.
“So I asked him why he didn't get 'em—a woman's hand and heart, and have a home.”
“Pollyanna!” Miss Polly had turned sharply. Her cheeks showed a sudden color.
“Well, I did. He looked so—so sorrowful.”
“What did he—say?” Miss Polly asked the question as if in spite of some force within her that was urging her not to ask it.
“He didn't say anything for a minute; then he said very low that you couldn't always get 'em for the asking.”
There was a brief silence. Miss Polly's eyes had turned again to the window. Her cheeks were still unnaturally pink.
Pollyanna sighed.
“He wants one, anyhow, I know, and I wish he could have one.”
“Why, Pollyanna, HOW do you know?”
“Because, afterwards, on another day, he said something else. He said that low, too, but I heard him. He said that he'd give all the world if he did have one woman's hand and heart. Why, Aunt Polly, what's the matter?” Aunt Polly had risen hurriedly and gone to the window.
“Nothing, dear. I was changing the position of this prism,” said Aunt Polly, whose whole face now was aflame.