Pollyanna - Eleanor H. Porter (ebook reader 8 inch .TXT) 📗

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.

XXVII Two Visits

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 today 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