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

of trying to soften the blow of saying that you don’t think she’d have me, anyway?”

“Oh, n-no⁠—no, indeed. She’d say yes⁠—she’d have to say yes, you know,” explained Pollyanna, with terrified earnestness. “But I’ve been thinking⁠—I mean, I was thinking that if⁠—if the girl didn’t love you, you really would be happier without her; and⁠—” At the look that came into John Pendleton’s face, Pollyanna stopped short.

“I shouldn’t want her, if she didn’t love me, Pollyanna.”

“No, I thought not, too.” Pollyanna began to look a little less distracted.

“Besides, she doesn’t happen to be a girl,” went on John Pendleton. “She’s a mature woman who, presumedly, would know her own mind.” The man’s voice was grave and slightly reproachful.

“Oh-h-h! Oh!” exclaimed Pollyanna, the dawning happiness in her eyes leaping forth in a flash of ineffable joy and relief. “Then you love somebody⁠—” By an almost superhuman effort Pollyanna choked off the “else” before it left her delighted lips.

“Love somebody! Haven’t I just been telling you I did?” laughed John Pendleton, half vexedly. “What I want to know is⁠—can she be made to love me? That’s where I was sort of⁠—of counting on your help, Pollyanna. You see, she’s a dear friend of yours.”

“Is she?” gurgled Pollyanna. “Then she’ll just have to love you. We’ll make her! Maybe she does, anyway, already. Who is she?”

There was a long pause before the answer came.

“I believe, after all, Pollyanna, I won’t⁠—yes, I will, too. It’s⁠—can’t you guess?⁠—Mrs. Carew.”

“Oh!” breathed Pollyanna, with a face of unclouded joy. “How perfectly lovely! I’m so glad, glad, glad!”

A long hour later Pollyanna sent Jimmy a letter. It was confused and incoherent⁠—a series of half-completed, illogical, but shyly joyous sentences, out of which Jimmy gathered much: a little from what was written; more from what was left unwritten. After all, did he really need more than this?

“Oh, Jimmy, he doesn’t love me a bit. It’s someone else. I mustn’t tell you who it is⁠—but her name isn’t Pollyanna.”

Jimmy had just time to catch the seven o’clock train for Beldingsville⁠—and he caught it.

XXXI After Long Years

Pollyanna was so happy that night after she had sent her letter to Jimmy that she could not quite keep it to herself. Always before going to bed she stepped into her aunt’s room to see if anything were needed. Tonight, after the usual questions, she had turned to put out the light when a sudden impulse sent her back to her aunt’s bedside. A little breathlessly she dropped on her knees.

“Aunt Polly, I’m so happy I just had to tell someone. I want to tell you. May I?”

“Tell me? Tell me what, child? Of course you may tell me. You mean, it’s good news⁠—for me?”

“Why, yes, dear; I hope so,” blushed Pollyanna. “I hope it will make you⁠—glad, a little, for me, you know. Of course Jimmy will tell you himself all properly some day. But I wanted to tell you first.”

“Jimmy!” Mrs. Chilton’s face changed perceptibly.

“Yes, when⁠—when he⁠—he asks you for me,” stammered Pollyanna, with a radiant flood of color. “Oh, I⁠—I’m so happy, I had to tell you!”

“Asks me for you! Pollyanna!” Mrs. Chilton pulled herself up in bed. “You don’t mean to say there’s anything serious between you and⁠—Jimmy Bean!”

Pollyanna fell back in dismay.

“Why, auntie, I thought you like Jimmy!”

“So I do⁠—in his place. But that place isn’t the husband of my niece.”

“Aunt Polly!”

“Come, come, child, don’t look so shocked. This is all sheer nonsense, and I’m glad I’ve been able to stop it before it’s gone any further.”

“But, Aunt Polly, it has gone further,” quavered Pollyanna. “Why, I⁠—I already have learned to lo⁠—c-care for him⁠—dearly.”

“Then you’ll have to unlearn it, Pollyanna, for never, never will I give my consent to your marrying Jimmy Bean.”

“But⁠—w-why, auntie?”

“First and foremost because we know nothing about him.”

“Why, Aunt Polly, we’ve always known him, ever since I was a little girl!”

“Yes, and what was he? A rough little runaway urchin from an Orphans’ Home! We know nothing whatever about his people, and his pedigree.”

“But I’m not marrying his p-people and his p-pedigree!”

With an impatient groan Aunt Polly fell back on her pillow.

“Pollyanna, you’re making me positively ill. My heart is going like a trip hammer. I shan’t sleep a wink tonight. Can’t you let this thing rest till morning?”

Pollyanna was on her feet instantly, her face all contrition.

“Why, yes⁠—yes, indeed; of course, Aunt Polly! And tomorrow you’ll feel different, I’m sure. I’m sure you will,” reiterated the girl, her voice quivering with hope again, as she turned to extinguish the light.

But Aunt Polly did not “feel different” in the morning. If anything, her opposition to the marriage was even more determined. In vain Pollyanna pleaded and argued. In vain she showed how deeply her happiness was concerned. Aunt Polly was obdurate. She would have none of the idea. She sternly admonished Pollyanna as to the possible evils of heredity, and warned her of the dangers of marrying into she knew not what sort of family. She even appealed at last to her sense of duty and gratitude toward herself, and reminded Pollyanna of the long years of loving care that had been hers in the home of her aunt, and she begged her piteously not to break her heart by this marriage as had her mother years before by her marriage.

When Jimmy himself, radiant-faced and glowing-eyed, came at ten o’clock, he was met by a frightened, sob-shaken little Pollyanna that tried ineffectually to hold him back with two trembling hands. With whitening cheeks, but with defiantly tender arms that held her close, he demanded an explanation.

“Pollyanna, dearest, what in the world is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, why did you come, why did you come? I was going to write and tell you straight away,” moaned Pollyanna.

“But you did write me, dear. I got it yesterday afternoon, just in time to catch my train.”

“No, no;⁠—again, I mean. I didn’t know then that I⁠—I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t! Pollyanna,”⁠—his eyes flamed into stern wrath⁠—“you don’t