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

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.

CHAPTER XXVI. A DOOR AJAR

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, I wanted 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;