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

had half turned to beat a soft retreat when the man at the piano lifted his head, bringing into view two flushed cheeks and a pair of fever-bright eyes.

“Why, Carew,” stammered Pendleton, aghast, “has anything⁠—er⁠—happened?”

“Happened! Happened!” ejaculated the lame youth, flinging out both his hands, in each of which, as Pendleton now saw, was an open letter. “Everything has happened! Wouldn’t you think it had if all your life you’d been in prison, and suddenly you saw the gates flung wide open? Wouldn’t you think it had if all in a minute you could ask the girl you loved to be your wife? Wouldn’t you think it had if⁠—But, listen! You think I’m crazy, but I’m not. Though maybe I am, after all, crazy with joy. I’d like to tell you. May I? I’ve got to tell somebody!”

Pendleton lifted his head. It was as if, unconsciously, he was bracing himself for a blow. He had grown a little white; but his voice was quite steady when he answered.

“Sure you may, old fellow. I’d be⁠—glad to hear it.”

Carew, however, had scarcely waited for assent. He was rushing on, still a bit incoherently.

“It’s not much to you, of course. You have two feet and your freedom. You have your ambitions and your bridges. But I⁠—to me it’s everything. It’s a chance to live a man’s life and do a man’s work, perhaps⁠—even if it isn’t dams and bridges. It’s something!⁠—and it’s something I’ve proved now I can do! Listen. In that letter there is the announcement that a little story of mine has won the first prize⁠—$3,000, in a contest. In that other letter there, a big publishing house accepts with flattering enthusiasm my first book manuscript for publication. And they both came today⁠—this morning. Do you wonder I am crazy glad?”

“No! No, indeed! I congratulate you, Carew, with all my heart,” cried Jimmy, warmly.

“Thank you⁠—and you may congratulate me. Think what it means to me. Think what it means if, by and by, I can be independent, like a man. Think what it means if I can, some day, make Mrs. Carew proud and glad that she gave the crippled lad a place in her home and heart. Think what it means for me to be able to tell the girl I love that I do love her.”

“Yes⁠—yes, indeed, old boy!” Jimmy spoke firmly, though he had grown very white now.

“Of course, maybe I ought not to do that last, even now,” resumed Jamie, a swift cloud shadowing the shining brightness of his countenance. “I’m still tied to⁠—these.” He tapped the crutches by his side. “I can’t forget, of course, that day in the woods last summer, when I saw Pollyanna⁠—I realize that always I’ll have to run the chance of seeing the girl I love in danger, and not being able to rescue her.”

“Oh, but Carew⁠—” began the other huskily.

Carew lifted a peremptory hand.

“I know what you’d say. But don’t say it. You can’t understand. you aren’t tied to two sticks. You did the rescuing, not I. It came to me then how it would be, always, with me and⁠—Sadie. I’d have to stand aside and see others⁠—”

“Sadie!” cut in Jimmy, sharply.

“Yes; Sadie Dean. You act surprised. Didn’t you know? Haven’t you suspected⁠—how I felt toward Sadie?” cried Jamie. “Have I kept it so well to myself, then? I tried to, but⁠—” He finished with a faint smile and a half-despairing gesture.

“Well, you certainly kept it all right, old fellow⁠—from me, anyhow,” cried Jimmy, gayly. The color had come back to Jimmy’s face in a rich flood, and his eyes had grown suddenly very bright indeed. “So it’s Sadie Dean. Good! I congratulate you again, I do, I do, as Nancy says.” Jimmy was quite babbling with joy and excitement now, so great and wonderful had been the reaction within him at the discovery that it was Sadie, not Pollyanna, whom Jamie loved. Jamie flushed and shook his head a bit sadly.

“No congratulations⁠—yet. You see, I haven’t spoken to⁠—her. But I think she must know. I supposed everybody knew. Pray, whom did you think it was, if not⁠—Sadie?”

Jimmy hesitated. Then, a little precipitately, he let it out.

“Why, I’d thought of⁠—Pollyanna.”

Jamie smiled and pursed his lips.

“Pollyanna’s a charming girl, and I love her⁠—but not that way, any more than she does me. Besides, I fancy somebody else would have something to say about that; eh?”

Jimmy colored like a happy, conscious boy.

“Do you?” he challenged, trying to make his voice properly impersonal.

“Of course! John Pendleton.”

“John Pendleton!” Jimmy wheeled sharply.

“What about John Pendleton?” queried a new voice; and Mrs. Carew came forward with a smile.

Jimmy, around whose ears for the second time within five minutes the world had crashed into fragments, barely collected himself enough for a low word of greeting. But Jamie, unabashed, turned with a triumphant air of assurance.

“Nothing; only I just said that I believed John Pendleton would have something to say about Pollyanna’s loving anybody⁠—but him.”

“Pollyanna! John Pendleton!” Mrs. Carew sat down suddenly in the chair nearest her. If the two men before her had not been so deeply absorbed in their own affairs they might have noticed that the smile had vanished from Mrs. Carew’s lips, and that an odd look as of almost fear had come to her eyes.

“Certainly,” maintained Jamie. “Were you both blind last summer? Wasn’t he with her a lot?”

“Why, I thought he was with⁠—all of us,” murmured Mrs. Carew, a little faintly.

“Not as he was with Pollyanna,” insisted Jamie. “Besides, have you forgotten that day when we were talking about John Pendleton’s marrying, and Pollyanna blushed and stammered and said finally that he had thought of marrying⁠—once. Well, I wondered then if there wasn’t something between them. Don’t you remember?”

“Y-yes, I think I do⁠—now that you speak of it,” murmured Mrs. Carew again. “But I had⁠—forgotten it.”

“Oh, but I can explain that,” cut in Jimmy, wetting his dry lips. “John Pendleton did have a love affair once, but it was with Pollyanna’s mother.”

“Pollyanna’s mother!” exclaimed two voices in surprise.

“Yes.