Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter (books to read fiction .TXT) 📕

the question without turning his head.

“Of course not! I’m Aunt Polly’s.”

The man turned now, almost fiercely.

“Before you were hers, Pollyanna, you were⁠—your mother’s. And⁠—it was your mother’s hand and heart that I wanted long years ago.”

“My mother’s!”

“Yes. I had not meant to tell you, but perhaps it’s better, after all, that I do⁠—now.” John Pendleton’s face had grown very white. He was speaking with evident difficulty. Pollyanna, her eyes wide and frightened, and her lips parted, was gazing at him fixedly. “I loved your mother; but she⁠—didn’t love me. And after a time she went away with⁠—your father. I did not know until then how much I did⁠—care. The whole world suddenly seemed to turn black under my fingers, and⁠—But, never mind. For long years I have been a cross, crabbed, unlovable, unloved old man⁠—though I’m not nearly sixty, yet, Pollyanna. Then, One day, like one of the prisms that you love so well, little girl, you danced into my life, and flecked my dreary old world with dashes of the purple and gold and scarlet of your own bright cheeriness. I found out, after a time, who you were, and⁠—and I thought then I never wanted to see you again. I didn’t want to be reminded of⁠—your mother. But⁠—you know how that came out. I just had to have you come. And now I want you always. Pollyanna, won’t you come now?”

“But, Mr. Pendleton, I⁠—There’s Aunt Polly!” Pollyanna’s eyes were blurred with tears.

The man made an impatient gesture.

“What about me? How do you suppose I’m going to be ‘glad’ about anything⁠—without you? Why, Pollyanna, it’s only since you came that I’ve been even half glad to live! But if I had you for my own little girl, I’d be glad for⁠—anything; and I’d try to make you glad, too, my dear. You shouldn’t have a wish ungratified. All my money, to the last cent, should go to make you happy.”

Pollyanna looked shocked.

“Why, Mr. Pendleton, as if I’d let you spend it on me⁠—all that money you’ve saved for the heathen!”

A dull red came to the man’s face. He started to speak, but Pollyanna was still talking.

“Besides, anybody with such a lot of money as you have doesn’t need me to make you glad about things. You’re making other folks so glad giving them things that you just can’t help being glad yourself! Why, look at those prisms you gave Mrs. Snow and me, and the gold piece you gave Nancy on her birthday, and⁠—”

“Yes, yes⁠—never mind about all that,” interrupted the man. His face was very, very red now⁠—and no wonder, perhaps: it was not for “giving things” that John Pendleton had been best known in the past. “That’s all nonsense. ’Twasn’t much, anyhow⁠—but what there was, was because of you. You gave those things; not I! Yes, you did,” he repeated, in answer to the shocked denial in her face. “And that only goes to prove all the more how I need you, little girl,” he added, his voice softening into tender pleading once more. “If ever, ever I am to play the ‘glad game,’ Pollyanna, you’ll have to come and play it with me.”

The little girl’s forehead puckered into a wistful frown.

“Aunt Polly has been so good to me,” she began; but the man interrupted her sharply. The old irritability had come back to his face. Impatience which would brook no opposition had been a part of John Pendleton’s nature too long to yield very easily now to restraint.

“Of course she’s been good to you! But she doesn’t want you, I’ll warrant, half so much as I do,” he contested.

“Why, Mr. Pendleton, she’s glad, I know, to have⁠—”

“Glad!” interrupted the man, thoroughly losing his patience now. “I’ll wager Miss Polly doesn’t know how to be glad⁠—for anything! Oh, she does her duty, I know. She’s a very dutiful woman. I’ve had experience with her ‘duty,’ before. I’ll acknowledge we haven’t been the best of friends for the last fifteen or twenty years. But I know her. Everyone knows her⁠—and she isn’t the ‘glad’ kind, Pollyanna. She doesn’t know how to be. As for your coming to me⁠—you just ask her and see if she won’t let you come. And, oh, little girl, little girl, I want you so!” he finished brokenly.

Pollyanna rose to her feet with a long sigh.

“All right. I’ll ask her,” she said wistfully. “Of course I don’t mean that I wouldn’t like to live here with you, Mr. Pendleton, but⁠—” She did not complete her sentence. There was a moment’s silence, then she added: “Well, anyhow, I’m glad I didn’t tell her yesterday;⁠—’cause then I supposed she was wanted, too.”

John Pendleton smiled grimly.

“Well, yes, Pollyanna; I guess it is just as well you didn’t mention it⁠—yesterday.”

“I didn’t⁠—only to the doctor; and of course he doesn’t count.”

“The doctor!” cried John Pendleton, turning quickly. “Not⁠—Dr.⁠—Chilton?”

“Yes; when he came to tell me you wanted to see me today, you know.”

“Well, of all the⁠—” muttered the man, falling back in his chair. Then he sat up with sudden interest. “And what did Dr. Chilton say?” he asked.

Pollyanna frowned thoughtfully.

“Why, I don’t remember. Not much, I reckon. Oh, he did say he could well imagine you did want to see me.”

“Oh, did he, indeed!” answered John Pendleton. And Pollyanna wondered why he gave that sudden queer little laugh.

XXI A Question Answered

The sky was darkening fast with what appeared to be an approaching thunder shower when Pollyanna hurried down the hill from John Pendleton’s house. Halfway home she met Nancy with an umbrella. By that time, however, the clouds had shifted their position and the shower was not so imminent.

“Guess it’s goin’ ’round ter the north,” announced Nancy, eyeing the sky critically. “I thought ’twas, all the time, but Miss Polly wanted me ter come with this. She was worried about ye!”

“Was she?” murmured Pollyanna abstractedly, eyeing the clouds in her turn.

Nancy sniffed a little.

“You don’t seem ter notice what I said,” she observed aggrievedly. “I said yer aunt was