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

mean to tell me there’s anybody else’s love you think you’ve got to keep me waiting for?” he demanded, holding her at arm’s length.

“No, no, Jimmy! Don’t look at me like that. I can’t bear it!”

“Then what is it? What is it you can’t do?”

“I can’t⁠—marry you.”

“Pollyanna, do you love me?”

“Yes. Oh, y-yes.”

“Then you shall marry me,” triumphed Jimmy, his arms enfolding her again.

“No, no, Jimmy, you don’t understand. It’s⁠—Aunt Polly,” struggled Pollyanna.

“Aunt Polly!”

“Yes. She⁠—won’t let me.”

“Ho!” Jimmy tossed his head with a light laugh. “We’ll fix Aunt Polly. She thinks she’s going to lose you, but we’ll just remind her that she⁠—she’s going to gain a⁠—a new nephew!” he finished in mock importance.

But Pollyanna did not smile. She turned her head hopelessly from side to side.

“No, no, Jimmy, you don’t understand! She⁠—she⁠—oh, how can I tell you?⁠—she objects to⁠—to you⁠—for⁠—me.”

Jimmy’s arms relaxed a little. His eyes sobered.

“Oh, well, I suppose I can’t blame her for that. I’m no⁠—wonder, of course,” he admitted constrainedly. “Still,”⁠—he turned loving eyes upon her⁠—“I’d try to make you⁠—happy, dear.”

“Indeed you would! I know you would,” protested Pollyanna, tearfully.

“Then why not⁠—give me a chance to try, Pollyanna, even if she⁠—doesn’t quite approve, at first. Maybe in time, after we were married, we could win her over.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t⁠—I couldn’t do that,” moaned Pollyanna, “after what she’s said. I couldn’t⁠—without her consent. You see, she’s done so much for me, and she’s so dependent on me. She isn’t well a bit, now, Jimmy. And, really, lately she’s been so⁠—so loving, and she’s been trying so hard to⁠—to play the game, you know, in spite of all her troubles. And she⁠—she cried, Jimmy, and begged me not to break her heart as⁠—as mother did long ago. And⁠—and Jimmy, I⁠—I just couldn’t, after all she’s done for me.”

There was a moment’s pause; then, with a vivid red mounting to her forehead, Pollyanna spoke again, brokenly.

“Jimmy, if you⁠—if you could only tell Aunt Polly something about⁠—about your father, and your people, and⁠—”

Jimmy’s arms dropped suddenly. He stepped back a little. The color drained from his face.

“Is⁠—that⁠—it?” he asked.

“Yes.” Pollyanna came nearer, and touched his arm timidly. “Don’t think⁠—It isn’t for me, Jimmy. I don’t care. Besides, I know that your father and your people were all⁠—all fine and noble, because you are so fine and noble. But she⁠—Jimmy, don’t look at me like that!”

But Jimmy, with a low moan had turned quite away from her. A minute later, with only a few choking words, which she could not understand, he had left the house.

From the Harrington homestead Jimmy went straight home and sought out John Pendleton. He found him in the great crimson-hung library where, some years before, Pollyanna had looked fearfully about for the “skeleton in John Pendleton’s closet.”

“Uncle John, do you remember that packet father gave me?” demanded Jimmy.

“Why, yes. What’s the matter, son?” John Pendleton had given a start of surprise at sight of Jimmy’s face.

“That packet has got to be opened, sir.”

“But⁠—the conditions!”

“I can’t help it. It’s got to be. That’s all. Will you do it?”

“Why, y-yes, my boy, of course, if you insist; but⁠—” he paused helplessly.

“Uncle John, as perhaps you have guessed, I love Pollyanna. I asked her to be my wife, and she consented.” The elder man made a delighted exclamation, but the other did not pause, or change his sternly intent expression. “She says now she can’t⁠—marry me. Mrs. Chilton objects. She objects to me.”

“Objects to you!” John Pendleton’s eyes flashed angrily.

“Yes. I found out why when⁠—when Pollyanna begged if I couldn’t tell her aunt something about⁠—about my father and my people.”

“Shucks! I thought Polly Chilton had more sense⁠—still, it’s just like her, after all. The Harringtons have always been inordinately proud of race and family,” snapped John Pendleton. “Well, could you?”

“Could I! It was on the end of my tongue to tell Pollyanna that there couldn’t have been a better father than mine was; then, suddenly, I remembered⁠—the packet, and what it said. And I was afraid. I didn’t dare say a word till I knew what was inside that packet. There’s something dad didn’t want me to know till I was thirty years old⁠—when I would be a man grown, and could stand anything. See? There’s a secret somewhere in our lives. I’ve got to know that secret, and I’ve got to know it now.”

“But, Jimmy, lad, don’t look so tragic. It may be a good secret. Perhaps it’ll be something you’ll like to know.”

“Perhaps. But if it had been, would he have been apt to keep it from me till I was thirty years old? No! Uncle John, it was something he was trying to save me from till I was old enough to stand it and not flinch. Understand, I’m not blaming dad. Whatever it was, it was something he couldn’t help, I’ll warrant. But what it was I’ve got to know. Will you get it, please? It’s in your safe, you know.”

John Pendleton rose at once.

“I’ll get it,” he said. Three minutes later it lay in Jimmy’s hand; but Jimmy held it out at once.

“I would rather you read it, sir, please. Then tell me.”

“But, Jimmy, I⁠—very well.” With a decisive gesture John Pendleton picked up a paper-cutter, opened the envelope, and pulled out the contents. There was a package of several papers tied together, and one folded sheet alone, apparently a letter. This John Pendleton opened and read first. And as he read, Jimmy, tense and breathless, watched his face. He saw, therefore, the look of amazement, joy, and something else he could not name, that leaped into John Pendleton’s countenance.

“Uncle John, what is it? What is it?” he demanded.

“Read it⁠—for yourself,” answered the man, thrusting the letter into Jimmy’s outstretched hand. And Jimmy read this:

“The enclosed papers are the legal proof that my boy Jimmy is really James Kent, son of John Kent, who married Doris Wetherby, daughter of William Wetherby of Boston. There is also a letter in which I explain to