Pollyanna Grows Up, Eleanor H. Porter [best short novels of all time txt] 📗

angry voices in the hall below, one of which she recognized as being Mary’s, while the other⁠—the other⁠—

The other voice was saying:

“Not on yer life! It’s nix on the beggin’ business. Do yer get me? I wants ter see the kid, Pollyanna. I got a message for her from⁠—from Sir James. Now beat it, will ye, and trot out the kid, if ye don’t mind.”

With a glad little cry Pollyanna turned and fairly flew down the stairway.

“Oh, I’m here, I’m here, I’m right here!” she panted, stumbling forward. “What is it? Did Jamie send you?”

In her excitement she had almost flung herself with outstretched arms upon the boy when Mary intercepted a shocked, restraining hand.

“Miss Pollyanna, Miss Pollyanna, do you mean to say you know this⁠—this beggar boy?”

The boy flushed angrily; but before he could speak Pollyanna interposed valiant championship.

“He isn’t a beggar boy. He belongs to one of my very best friends. Besides, he’s the one that found me and brought me home that time I was lost.” Then to the boy she turned with impetuous questioning. “What is it? Did Jamie send you?”

“Sure he did. He hit the hay a month ago, and he hain’t been up since.”

“He hit⁠—what?” puzzled Pollyanna.

“Hit the hay⁠—went ter bed. He’s sick, I mean, and he wants ter see ye. Will ye come?”

“Sick? Oh, I’m so sorry!” grieved Pollyanna. “Of course I’ll come. I’ll go get my hat and coat right away.”

“Miss Pollyanna!” gasped Mary in stern disapproval. “As if Mrs. Carew would let you go⁠—anywhere with a strange boy like this!”

“But he isn’t a strange boy,” objected Pollyanna. “I’ve known him ever so long, and I must go. I⁠—”

“What in the world is the meaning of this?” demanded Mrs. Carew icily from the drawing-room doorway. “Pollyanna, who is this boy, and what is he doing here?”

Pollyanna turned with a quick cry.

“Oh, Mrs. Carew, you’ll let me go, won’t you?”

“Go where?”

“To see my brother, ma’am,” cut in the boy hurriedly, and with an obvious effort to be very polite. “He’s sort of off his feed, ye know, and he wouldn’t give me no peace till I come up⁠—after her,” with an awkward gesture toward Pollyanna. “He thinks a sight an’ all of her.”

“I may go, mayn’t I?” pleaded Pollyanna.

Mrs. Carew frowned.

“Go with this boy⁠—you? Certainly not, Pollyanna! I wonder you are wild enough to think of it for a moment.”

“Oh, but I want you to come, too,” began Pollyanna.

“I? Absurd, child! That is impossible. You may give this boy here a little money, if you like, but⁠—”

“Thank ye, ma’am, but I didn’t come for money,” resented the boy, his eyes flashing. “I come for⁠—her.”

“Yes, and Mrs. Carew, it’s Jerry⁠—Jerry Murphy, the boy that found me when I was lost, and brought me home,” appealed Pollyanna. “Now won’t you let me go?”

Mrs. Carew shook her head.

“It is out of the question, Pollyanna.”

“But he says Ja⁠—the other boy is sick, and wants me!”

“I can’t help that.”

“And I know him real well, Mrs. Carew. I do, truly. He reads books⁠—lovely books, all full of knights and lords and ladies, and he feeds the birds and squirrels and gives ’em names, and everything. And he can’t walk, and he doesn’t have enough to eat, lots of days,” panted Pollyanna; “and he’s been playing my glad game for a year, and didn’t know it. And he plays it ever and ever so much better than I do. And I’ve hunted and hunted for him, ever and ever so many days. Honest and truly, Mrs. Carew, I’ve just got to see him,” almost sobbed Pollyanna. “I can’t lose him again!”

An angry color flamed into Mrs. Carew’s cheeks.

“Pollyanna, this is sheer nonsense. I am surprised. I am amazed at you for insisting upon doing something you know I disapprove of. I can not allow you to go with this boy. Now please let me hear no more about it.”

A new expression came to Pollyanna’s face. With a look half-terrified, half-exalted, she lifted her chin and squarely faced Mrs. Carew. Tremulously, but determinedly, she spoke.

“Then I’ll have to tell you. I didn’t mean to⁠—till I was sure. I wanted you to see him first. But now I’ve got to tell. I can’t lose him again. I think, Mrs. Carew, he’s⁠—Jamie.”

“Jamie! Not⁠—my⁠—Jamie!” Mrs. Carew’s face had grown very white.

“Yes.”

“Impossible!”

“I know; but, please, his name is Jamie, and he doesn’t know the other one. His father died when he was six years old, and he can’t remember his mother. He’s twelve years old, he thinks. These folks took him in when his father died, and his father was queer, and didn’t tell folks his name, and⁠—”

But Mrs. Carew had stopped her with a gesture. Mrs. Carew was even whiter than before, but her eyes burned with a sudden fire.

“We’ll go at once,” she said. “Mary, tell Perkins to have the car here as soon as possible. Pollyanna, get your hat and coat. Boy, wait here, please. We’ll be ready to go with you immediately.” The next minute she had hurried upstairs.

In the hall the boy drew a long breath.

“Gee whiz!” he muttered softly. “If we ain’t goin’ ter go in a buzz-wagon! Some class ter that! Gorry! what’ll Sir James say?”

X In Murphy’s Alley

With the opulent purr that seems to be peculiar to luxurious limousines, Mrs. Carew’s car rolled down Commonwealth Avenue and out upon Arlington Street to Charles. Inside sat a shining-eyed little girl and a white-faced, tense woman. Outside, to give directions to the plainly disapproving chauffeur, sat Jerry Murphy, inordinately proud and insufferably important.

When the limousine came to a stop before a shabby doorway in a narrow, dirty alley, the boy leaped to the ground, and, with a ridiculous imitation of the liveried pomposities he had so often watched, threw open the door of the car and stood waiting for the ladies to alight.

Pollyanna sprang out at once, her eyes widening with amazement and distress as she looked about her. Behind her came Mrs. Carew, visibly shuddering as her gaze swept the filth, the sordidness, and the ragged children that