Pollyanna by Eleanor Hodgman Porter (most motivational books .TXT) 📕

class="calibre1">“Of course,” nodded Pollyanna emphatically. “Then I’ll know just where to find you. And they’ll take you—I’m sure you’re far enough away for that. Didn’t Aunt Polly take—Say!” she broke off, suddenly, “DO you suppose I was Aunt Polly’s little girl from India?”

“Well, if you ain’t the queerest kid,” grinned Jimmy, as he turned away.

It was about a week after the accident in Pendleton Woods that Pollyanna said to her aunt one morning:

“Aunt Polly, please would you mind very much if I took Mrs. Snow’s calf’s-foot jelly this week to some one else? I’m sure Mrs. Snow wouldn’t—this once.”

“Dear me, Pollyanna, what ARE you up to now? sighed her aunt. “You ARE the most extraordinary child!”

Pollyanna frowned a little anxiously.

“Aunt Polly, please, what is extraordinary? If you’re EXtraordinary you can’t be ORdinary, can you?”

“You certainly can not.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then. I’m glad I’m EXtraordinary,” sighed Pollyanna, her face clearing. “You see, Mrs. White used to say Mrs. Rawson was a very ordinary woman—and she disliked Mrs. Rawson something awful. They were always fight—I mean, father had—that is, I mean, WE had more trouble keeping peace between them than we did between any of the rest of the Aiders,” corrected Pollyanna, a little breathless from her efforts to steer between the Scylla of her father’s past commands in regard to speaking of church quarrels, and the Charybdis of her aunt’s present commands in regard to speaking of her father.

“Yes, yes; well, never mind,” interposed Aunt Polly, a trifle impatiently. “You do run on so, Pollyanna, and no matter what we’re talking about you always bring up at those Ladies’ Aiders!”

“Yes’m,” smiled Pollyanna, cheerfully, “I reckon I do, maybe. But you see they used to bring me up, and—”

“That will do, Pollyanna,” interrupted a cold voice. “Now what is it about this jelly?”

“Nothing, Aunt Polly, truly, that you would mind, I’m sure. You let me take jelly to HER, so I thought you would to HIM—this once. You see, broken legs aren’t like—like lifelong invalids, so his won’t last forever as Mrs. Snow’s does, and she can have all the rest of the things after just once or twice.”

” ‘Him’? ‘He’? ‘Broken leg’? What are you talking about, Pollyanna?”

Pollyanna stared; then her face relaxed.

“Oh, I forgot. I reckon you didn’t know. You see, it happened while you were gone. It was the very day you went that I found him in the woods, you know; and I had to unlock his house and telephone for the men and the doctor, and hold his head, and everything. And of course then I came away and haven’t seen him since. But when Nancy made the jelly for Mrs. Snow this week I thought how nice it would be if I could take it to him instead of her, just this once. Aunt Polly, may I?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so,” acquiesced Miss Polly, a little wearily. “Who did you say he was?”

“The Man. I mean, Mr. John Pendleton.”

Miss Polly almost sprang from her chair.

“JOHN PENDLETON!”

“Yes. Nancy told me his name. Maybe you know him.”

Miss Polly did not answer this. Instead she asked:

“Do YOU know him?

Pollyanna nodded.

“Oh, yes. He always speaks and smiles—now. He’s only cross OUTSIDE, you know. I’ll go and get the jelly. Nancy had it ‘most fixed when I came in,” finished Pollyanna, already halfway across the room.

“Pollyanna, wait! Miss Polly’s voice was suddenly very stern. I’ve changed my mind. I would prefer that Mrs. Snow had that jelly to-day—as usual. That is all. You may go now.”

Pollyanna’s face fell.

“Oh, but Aunt Polly, HERS will last. She can always be sick and have things, you know; but his is just a broken leg, and legs don’t last—I mean, broken ones. He’s had it a whole week now.”

“Yes, I remember. I heard Mr. John Pendleton had met with an accident,” said Miss Polly, a little stiffly; “but—I do not care to be sending jelly to John Pendleton, Pollyanna.”

“I know, he is cross—outside,” admitted Pollyanna, sadly, “so I suppose you don’t like him. But I wouldn’t say ‘twas you sent it. I’d say ‘twas me. I like him. I’d be glad to send him jelly.”

Miss Polly began to shake her head again. Then, suddenly, she stopped, and asked in a curiously quiet voice:

“Does he know who you—are, Pollyanna?”

The little girl sighed.

“I reckon not. I told him my name, once, but he never calls me it—never.”

“Does he know where you—live?”

“Oh, no. I never told him that.”

“Then he doesn’t know you’re my—niece?”

“I don’t think so.”

For a moment there was silence. Miss Polly was looking at Pollyanna with eyes that did not seem to see her at all. The little girl, shifting impatiently from one small foot to the other, sighed audibly. Then Miss Polly roused herself with a start.

“Very well, Pollyanna,” she said at last , still in that queer voice, so unlike her own; “you may you may take the jelly to Mr. Pendleton as your own gift. But understand: I do not send it. Be very sure that he does not think I do!”

“Yes’m—no’m—thank you, Aunt Polly,” exulted Pollyanna, as she flew through the door.

CHAPTER XV. DR. CHILTON

The great gray pile of masonry looked very different to Pollyanna when she made her second visit to the house of Mr. John Pendleton. Windows were open, an elderly woman was hanging out clothes in the back yard, and the doctor’s gig stood under the porte-cochere.

As before Pollyanna went to the side door. This time she rang the bell—her fingers were not stiff to-day from a tight clutch on a bunch of keys.

A familiar-looking small dog bounded up the steps to greet her, but there was a slight delay before the woman who had been hanging out the clothes opened the door.

“If you please, I’ve brought some calf’s-foot jelly for Mr. Pendleton,” smiled Pollyanna.

“Thank you,” said the woman, reaching for the bowl in the little girl’s hand. “Who shall I say sent it? And it’s calf’s-foot jelly?”

The doctor, coming into the hall at that moment, heard the woman’s words and saw the disappointed look on Pollyanna’s face. He stepped quickly forward.

“Ah! Some calf’s-foot jelly?” he asked genially. “That will be fine! Maybe you’d like to see our patient, eh?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” beamed Pollyanna; and the woman, in obedience to a nod from the doctor, led the way down the hall at once, though plainly with vast surprise on her face.

Behind the doctor, a young man (a trained nurse from the nearest city) gave a disturbed exclamation.

“But, Doctor, didn’t Mr. Pendleton give orders not to admit—any one?”

“Oh, yes,” nodded the doctor, imperturbably. “But I’m giving orders now. I’ll take the risk.” Then he added whimsically: “You don’t know, of course; but that little girl is better than a six-quart bottle of tonic any day. If anything or anybody can take the grouch out of Pendleton this afternoon, she can. That’s why I sent her in.”

“Who is she?”

For one brief moment the doctor hesitated.

“She’s the niece of one of our best known residents. Her name is Pollyanna Whittier. I—I don’t happen to enjoy a very extensive personal acquaintance with the little lady as yet; but lots of my patients do—I’m thankful to say!

The nurse smiled.

“Indeed! And what are the special ingredients of this wonder-working—tonic of hers?”

The doctor shook his head.

“I don’t know. As near as I can find out it is an overwhelming, unquenchable gladness for everything that has happened or is going to happen. At any rate, her quaint speeches are constantly being repeated to me, and, as near as I can make out, ‘just being glad’ is the tenor of most of them. All is,” he added, with another whimsical smile, as he stepped out on to the porch, “I wish I could prescribe her—and buy her—as I would a box of pills;—though if there gets to be many of her in the world, you and I might as well go to ribbon-selling and ditch-digging for all the money we’d get out of nursing and doctoring,” he laughed, picking up the reins and stepping into the gig.

Pollyanna, meanwhile, in accordance with the doctor’s orders, was being escorted to John Pendleton’s rooms.

Her way led through the great library at the end of the hall, and, rapid as was her progress through it, Pollyanna saw at once that great changes had taken place. The book-lined walls and the crimson curtains were the same; but there was no litter on the floor, no untidiness on the desk, and not so much as a grain of dust in sight. The telephone card hung in its proper place, and the brass andirons had been polished. One of the mysterious doors was open, and it was toward this that the maid led the way. A moment later Pollyanna found herself in a sumptuously furnished bedroom while the maid was saying in a frightened voice:

“If you please, sir, here—here’s a little girl with some jelly. The doctor said I was to—to bring her in.”

The next moment Pollyanna found herself alone with a very cross-looking man lying flat on his back in bed.

“See here, didn’t I say—” began an angry voice. “Oh, it’s you!” it broke off not very graciously, as Pollyanna advanced toward the bed.

“Yes, sir,” smiled Pollyanna. “Oh, I’m so glad they let me in! You see, at first the lady ‘most took my jelly, and I was so afraid I wasn’t going to see you at all. Then the doctor came, and he said I might. Wasn’t he lovely to let me see you?”

In spite of himself the man’s lips twitched into a smile; but all he said was “Humph!”

“And I’ve brought you some jelly,” resumed Pollyanna; “—calf’s-foot. I hope you like it?” There was a rising inflection in her voice.

“Never ate it.” The fleeting smile had gone, and the scowl had come back to the man’s face.

For a brief instant Pollyanna’s countenance showed disappointment; but it cleared as she set the bowl of jelly down.

“Didn’t you? Well, if you didn’t, then you can’t know you DON’T like it, anyhow, can you? So I reckon I’m glad you haven’t, after all. Now, if you knew—”

“Yes, yes; well, there’s one thing I know all right, and that is that I’m flat on my back right here this minute, and that I’m liable to stay here—till doomsday, I guess.”

Pollyanna looked shocked.

“Oh, no! It couldn’t be till doomsday, you know, when the angel Gabriel blows his trumpet, unless it should come quicker than we think it will—oh, of course, I know the Bible says it may come quicker than we think, but I don’t think it will—that is, of course I believe the Bible; but I mean I don’t think it will come as much quicker as it would if it should come now, and—”

John Pendleton laughed suddenly—and aloud. The nurse, coming in at that moment, heard the laugh, and beat a hurried—but a very silent—retreat. He had the air of a frightened cook who, seeing the danger of a breath of cold air striking a half-done cake, hastily shuts the oven door.

“Aren’t you getting a little mixed?” asked John Pendleton of Pollyanna.

The little girl laughed.

“Maybe. But what I mean is, that legs don’t last—broken ones, you know—like lifelong invalids, same as Mrs. Snow has got. So yours won’t last till doomsday at all. I should think