Pollyanna Grows Up - Eleanor H. Porter (read an ebook week .TXT) 📗

it’s made fuss enough for a whole roof already, and I’m sick of it!” With which statement, Pollyanna, her face carefully averted, turned and trailed listlessly out of the room.

“It’s so funny and so⁠—so hard, I’m afraid I’m making a mess of it,” she whispered to herself anxiously, as she hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

Behind her, Aunt Polly, in the bedroom, gazed after her with eyes that were again faintly puzzled.

Aunt Polly had occasion a good many times before six o’clock that night to gaze at Pollyanna with surprised and questioning eyes. Nothing was right with Pollyanna. The fire would not burn, the wind blew one particular blind loose three times, and still a third leak was discovered in the roof. The mail brought to Pollyanna a letter that made her cry (though no amount of questioning on Aunt Polly’s part would persuade her to tell why). Even the dinner went wrong, and innumerable things happened in the afternoon to call out fretful, discouraged remarks.

Not until the day was more than half gone did a look of shrewd suspicion suddenly fight for supremacy with the puzzled questioning in Aunt Polly’s eyes. If Pollyanna saw this she made no sign. Certainly there was no abatement in her fretfulness and discontent. Long before six o’clock, however, the suspicion in Aunt Polly’s eyes became conviction, and drove to ignominious defeat the puzzled questioning. But, curiously enough then, a new look came to take its place, a look that was actually a twinkle of amusement.

At last, after a particularly doleful complaint on Pollyanna’s part, Aunt Polly threw up her hands with a gesture of half-laughing despair.

“That’ll do, that’ll do, child! I’ll give up. I’ll confess myself beaten at my own game. You can be⁠—glad for that, if you like,” she finished with a grim smile.

“I know, auntie, but you said⁠—” began Pollyanna demurely.

“Yes, yes, but I never will again,” interrupted Aunt Polly, with emphasis. “Mercy, what a day this has been! I never want to live through another like it.” She hesitated, flushed a little, then went on with evident difficulty: “Furthermore, I⁠—I want you to know that⁠—that I understand I haven’t played the game myself⁠—very well, lately; but, after this, I’m going to⁠—to try⁠—where’s my handkerchief?” she finished sharply, fumbling in the folds of her dress.

Pollyanna sprang to her feet and crossed instantly to her aunt’s side.

“Oh, but Aunt Polly, I didn’t mean⁠—It was just a⁠—a joke,” she quavered in quick distress. “I never thought of your taking it that way.”

“Of course you didn’t,” snapped Aunt Polly, with all the asperity of a stern, repressed woman who abhors scenes and sentiment, and who is mortally afraid she will show that her heart has been touched. “Don’t you suppose I know you didn’t mean it that way? Do you think, if I thought you had been trying to teach me a lesson that I’d⁠—I’d⁠—” But Pollyanna’s strong young arms had her in a close embrace, and she could not finish the sentence.

XXVIII Jimmy and Jamie

Pollyanna was not the only one that was finding that winter a hard one. In Boston Jimmy Pendleton, in spite of his strenuous efforts to occupy his time and thoughts, was discovering that nothing quite erased from his vision a certain pair of laughing blue eyes, and nothing quite obliterated from his memory a certain well-loved, merry voice.

Jimmy told himself that if it were not for Mrs. Carew, and the fact that he could be of some use to her, life would not be worth the living. Even at Mrs. Carew’s it was not all joy, for always there was Jamie; and Jamie brought thoughts of Pollyanna⁠—unhappy thoughts.

Being thoroughly convinced that Jamie and Pollyanna cared for each other, and also being equally convinced that he himself was in honor bound to step one side and give the handicapped Jamie full right of way, it never occurred to him to question further. Of Pollyanna he did not like to talk or to hear. He knew that both Jamie and Mrs. Carew heard from her; and when they spoke of her, he forced himself to listen, in spite of his heartache. But he always changed the subject as soon as possible, and he limited his own letters to her to the briefest and most infrequent epistles possible. For, to Jimmy, a Pollyanna that was not his was nothing but a source of pain and wretchedness; and he had been so glad when the time came for him to leave Beldingsville and take up his studies again in Boston: to be so near Pollyanna, and yet so far from her, he had found to be nothing but torture.

In Boston, with all the feverishness of a restless mind that seeks distraction from itself, he had thrown himself into the carrying out of Mrs. Carew’s plans for her beloved working girls, and such time as could be spared from his own duties he had devoted to this work, much to Mrs. Carew’s delight and gratitude.

And so for Jimmy the winter had passed and spring had come⁠—a joyous, blossoming spring full of soft breezes, gentle showers, and tender green buds expanding into riotous bloom and fragrance. To Jimmy, however, it was anything but a joyous spring, for in his heart was still nothing but a gloomy winter of discontent.

“If only they’d settle things and announce the engagement, once for all,” murmured Jimmy to himself, more and more frequently these days. “If only I could know something for sure, I think I could stand it better!”

Then one day late in April, he had his wish⁠—a part of it: he learned “something for sure.”

It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and Mary, at Mrs. Carew’s, had ushered him into the music-room with a well-trained: “I’ll tell Mrs. Carew you’re here, sir. She’s expecting you, I think.”

In the music-room Jimmy had found himself brought to a dismayed halt by the sight of Jamie at the piano, his arms outflung upon the rack, and his head bowed upon them. Pendleton