Pollyanna, Eleanor H. Porter [the top 100 crime novels of all time txt] 📗

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.

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.

Everyone 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