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

With eager, though tearful eyes she greeted each loved landmark as they came to it. Only once did she speak, and that was to say:

“Isn’t Jimmy fine? How he has improved! And hasn’t he the nicest eyes and smile?”

She waited hopefully, but as there was no reply to this, she contented herself with a cheerful: “Well, I think he has, anyhow.”

Timothy had been both too aggrieved and too afraid to tell Mrs. Chilton what to expect at home; so the wide-flung doors and flower-adorned rooms with Nancy courtesying on the porch were a complete surprise to Mrs. Chilton and Pollyanna.

“Why, Nancy, how perfectly lovely!” cried Pollyanna, springing lightly to the ground. “Auntie, here’s Nancy to welcome us. And only see how charming she’s made everything look!”

Pollyanna’s voice was determinedly cheerful, though it shook audibly. This homecoming without the dear doctor whom she had loved so well was not easy for her; and if hard for her, she knew something of what it must be for her aunt. She knew, too, that the one thing her aunt was dreading was a breakdown before Nancy, than which nothing could be worse in her eyes. Behind the heavy black veil the eyes were brimming and the lips were trembling, Pollyanna knew. She knew, too, that to hide these facts her aunt would probably seize the first opportunity for faultfinding, and make her anger a cloak to hide the fact that her heart was breaking. Pollyanna was not surprised, therefore, to hear her aunt’s few cold words of greeting to Nancy followed by a sharp: “Of course all this was very kind, Nancy; but, really, I would have much preferred that you had not done it.”

All the joy fled from, Nancy’s face. She looked hurt and frightened.

“Oh, but Miss Polly⁠—I mean, Mis’ Chilton,” she entreated; “it seemed as if I couldn’t let you⁠—”

“There, there, never mind, Nancy,” interrupted Mrs. Chilton. “I⁠—I don’t want to talk about it.” And, with her head proudly high, she swept out of the room. A minute later they heard the door of her bedroom shut upstairs.

Nancy turned in dismay.

“Oh, Miss Pollyanna, what is it? What have I done? I thought she’d like it. I meant it all right!”

“Of course you did,” wept Pollyanna, fumbling in her bag for her handkerchief. “And ’twas lovely to have you do it, too⁠—just lovely.”

“But she didn’t like it.”

“Yes, she did. But she didn’t want to show she liked it. She was afraid if she did she’d show⁠—other things, and⁠—Oh, Nancy, Nancy, I’m so glad just to c-cry!” And Pollyanna was sobbing on Nancy’s shoulder.

“There, there, dear; so she shall, so she shall,” soothed Nancy, patting the heaving shoulders with one hand, and trying, with the other, to make the corner of her apron serve as a handkerchief to wipe her own tears away.

“You see, I mustn’t⁠—cry⁠—before⁠—her,” faltered Pollyanna; “and it was hard⁠—coming here⁠—the first time, you know, and all. And I knew how she was feeling.”

“Of course, of course, poor lamb,” crooned Nancy. “And to think the first thing I should have done was somethin’ ter vex her, and⁠—”

“Oh, but she wasn’t vexed at that,” corrected Pollyanna, agitatedly. “It’s just her way, Nancy. You see, she doesn’t like to show how badly she feels about⁠—about the doctor. And she’s so afraid she will show it that she⁠—she just takes anything for an excuse to⁠—to talk about. She does it to me, too, just the same. So I know all about it. See?”

“Oh, yes, I see, I do, I do.” Nancy’s lips snapped together a little severely, and her sympathetic pats, for the minute, were even more loving, if possible. “Poor lamb! I’m glad I come, anyhow, for your sake.”

“Yes, so am I,” breathed Pollyanna, gently drawing herself away and wiping her eyes. “There, I feel better. And I do thank you ever so much, Nancy, and I appreciate it. Now don’t let us keep you when it’s time for you to go.”

“Ho! I’m thinkin’ I’ll stay for a spell,” sniffed Nancy.

“Stay! Why, Nancy, I thought you were married. Aren’t you Timothy’s wife?”

“Sure! But he won’t mind⁠—for you. He’d want me to stay⁠—for you.”

“Oh, but, Nancy, we couldn’t let you,” demurred Pollyanna. “We can’t have anybody⁠—now, you know. I’m going to do the work. Until we know just how things are, we shall live very economically, Aunt Polly says.”

“Ho! as if I’d take money from⁠—” began Nancy, in bridling wrath; but at the expression on the other’s face she stopped, and let her words dwindle off in a mumbling protest, as she hurried from the room to look after her creamed chicken on the stove.

Not until supper was over, and everything put in order, did Mrs. Timothy Durgin consent to drive away with her husband; then she went with evident reluctance, and with many pleadings to be allowed to come “just ter help out a bit” at any time.

After Nancy had gone, Pollyanna came into the living-room where Mrs. Chilton was sitting alone, her hand over her eyes.

“Well, dearie, shall I light up?” suggested Pollyanna, brightly.

“Oh, I suppose so.”

“Wasn’t Nancy a dear to fix us all up so nice?”

No answer.

“Where in the world she found all these flowers I can’t imagine. She has them in every room down here, and in both bedrooms, too.”

Still no answer.

Pollyanna gave a half-stifled sigh and threw a wistful glance into her aunt’s averted face. After a moment she began again hopefully.

“I saw Old Tom in the garden. Poor man, his rheumatism is worse than ever. He was bent nearly double. He inquired very particularly for you, and⁠—”

Mrs. Chilton turned with a sharp interruption.

“Pollyanna, what are we going to do?”

“Do? Why, the best we can, of course, dearie.”

Mrs. Chilton gave an impatient gesture.

“Come, come, Pollyanna, do be serious for once. You’ll find it is serious, fast enough. What are we going to do? As you know, my income has almost entirely stopped. Of course, some of the things are worth something, I suppose; but Mr. Hart says very few of them will pay anything at present. We