SOME OLD FRIENDS
In Beldingsville that August day, Mrs. Chilton waited until Pollyanna
had gone to bed before she spoke to her husband about the letter that
had come in the morning mail. For that matter, she would have had to
wait, anyway, for crowded office hours, and the doctor's two long
drives over the hills had left no time for domestic conferences.
It was about half-past nine, indeed, when the doctor entered his
wife's sitting-room. His tired face lighted at sight of her, but at
once a perplexed questioning came to his eyes.
"Why, Polly, dear, what is it?" he asked concernedly.
His wife gave a rueful laugh.
"Well, it's a letter--though I didn't mean you should find out by just
looking at me."
"Then you mustn't look so I can," he smiled. "But what is it?"
Mrs. Chilton hesitated, pursed her lips, then picked up a letter near
her.
"I'll read it to you," she said. "It's from a Miss Della Wetherby at
Dr. Ames' Sanatorium."
"All right. Fire away," directed the man, throwing himself at full
length on to the couch near his wife's chair.
But his wife did not at once "fire away." She got up first and covered
her husband's recumbent figure with a gray worsted afghan. Mrs.
Chilton's wedding day was but a year behind her. She was forty-two
now. It seemed sometimes as if into that one short year of wifehood
she had tried to crowd all the loving service and "babying" that had
been accumulating through twenty years of lovelessness and loneliness.
Nor did the doctor--who had been forty-five on his wedding day, and
who could remember nothing but loneliness and lovelessness--on his
part object in the least to this concentrated "tending." He acted,
indeed, as if he quite enjoyed it--though he was careful not to show
it too ardently: he had discovered that Mrs. Polly had for so long
been Miss Polly that she was inclined to retreat in a panic and dub
her ministrations "silly," if they were received with too much notice
and eagerness. So he contented himself now with a mere pat of her hand
as she gave the afghan a final smooth, and settled herself to read the
letter aloud.
"My dear Mrs. Chilton," Della Wetherby had written. "Just six times I
have commenced a letter to you, and torn it up; so now I have decided
not to 'commence' at all, but just to tell you what I want at once. I
want Pollyanna. May I have her?
"I met you and your husband last March when you came on to take
Pollyanna home, but I presume you don't remember me. I am asking Dr.
Ames (who does know me very well) to write your husband, so that you
may (I hope) not fear to trust your dear little niece to us.
"I understand that you would go to Germany with your husband but for
leaving Pollyanna; and so I am making so bold as to ask you to let us
take her. Indeed, I am begging you to let us have her, dear Mrs.
Chilton. And now let me tell you why.
"My sister, Mrs. Carew, is a lonely, broken-hearted, discontented,
unhappy woman. She lives in a world of gloom, into which no sunshine
penetrates. Now I believe that if anything on earth can bring the
sunshine into her life, it is your niece, Pollyanna. Won't you let her
try? I wish I could tell you what she has done for the Sanatorium
here, but nobody could TELL. You would have to see it. I long ago
discovered that you can't TELL about Pollyanna. The minute you try to,
she sounds priggish and preachy, and--impossible. Yet you and I know
she is anything but that. You just have to bring Pollyanna on to the
scene and let her speak for herself. And so I want to take her to my
sister--and let her speak for herself. She would attend school, of
course, but meanwhile I truly believe she would be healing the wound
in my sister's heart.
"I don't know how to end this letter. I believe it's harder than it
was to begin it. I'm afraid I don't want to end it at all. I just want
to keep talking and talking, for fear, if I stop, it'll give you a
chance to say no. And so, if you ARE tempted to say that dreadful
word, won't you please consider that--that I'm still talking, and
telling you how much we want and need Pollyanna.
"Hopefully yours,
"DELLA WETHERBY."
"There!" ejaculated Mrs. Chilton, as she laid the letter down. "Did
you ever read such a remarkable letter, or hear of a more
preposterous, absurd request?"
"Well, I'm not so sure," smiled the doctor. "I don't think it's absurd
to want Pollyanna."
"But--but the way she puts it--healing the wound in her sister's
heart, and all that. One would think the child was some sort of--of
medicine!"
The doctor laughed outright, and raised his eyebrows.
"Well, I'm not so sure but she is, Polly. I ALWAYS said I wished I
could prescribe her and buy her as I would a box of pills; and Charlie
Ames says they always made it a point at the Sanatorium to give their
patients a dose of Pollyanna as soon as possible after their arrival,
during the whole year she was there."
"'Dose,' indeed!" scorned Mrs. Chilton.
"Then--you don't think you'll let her go?"
"Go? Why, of course not! Do you think I'd let that child go to perfect
strangers like that?--and such strangers! Why, Thomas, I should expect
that that nurse would have her all bottled and labeled with full
directions on the outside how to take her, by the time I'd got back
from Germany."
Again the doctor threw back his head and laughed heartily, but only
for a moment. His face changed perceptibly as he reached into his
pocket for a letter.
"I heard from Dr. Ames myself, this morning," he said, with an odd
something in his voice that brought a puzzled frown to his wife's
brow. "Suppose I read you my letter now."
"Dear Tom," he began. "Miss Della Wetherby has asked me to give her
and her sister a 'character,' which I am very glad to do. I have known
the Wetherby girls from babyhood. They come from a fine old family,
and are thoroughbred gentlewomen. You need not fear on that score.
"There were three sisters, Doris, Ruth, and Della. Doris married a man
named John Kent, much against the family's wishes. Kent came from good
stock, but was not much himself, I guess, and was certainly a very
eccentric, disagreeable man to deal with. He was bitterly angry at the
Wetherbys' attitude toward him, and there was little communication
between the families until the baby came. The Wetherbys worshiped the
little boy, James--'Jamie,' as they called him. Doris, the mother,
died when the boy was four years old, and the Wetherbys were making
every effort to get the father to give the child entirely up to them,
when suddenly Kent disappeared, taking the boy with him. He has never
been heard from since, though a world-wide search has been made.
"The loss practically killed old Mr. and Mrs. Wetherby. They both died
soon after. Ruth was already married and widowed. Her husband was a
man named Carew, very wealthy, and much older than herself. He lived
but a year or so after marriage, and left her with a young son who
also died within a year.
"From the time little Jamie disappeared, Ruth and Della seemed to have
but one object in life, and that was to find him. They have spent
money like water, and have all but moved heaven and earth; but without
avail. In time Della took up nursing. She is doing splendid work, and
has become the cheerful, efficient, sane woman that she was meant to
be--though still never forgetting her lost nephew, and never leaving
unfollowed any possible clew that might lead to his discovery.
"But with Mrs. Carew it is quite different. After losing her own boy,
she seemed to concentrate all her thwarted mother-love on her sister's
son. As you can imagine, she was frantic when he disappeared. That was
eight years ago--for her, eight long years of misery, gloom, and
bitterness. Everything that money can buy, of course, is at her
command; but nothing pleases her, nothing interests her. Della feels
that the time has come when she must be gotten out of herself, at all
hazards; and Della believes that your wife's sunny little niece,
Pollyanna, possesses the magic key that will unlock the door to a new
existence for her. Such being the case, I hope you will see your way
clear to granting her request. And may I add that I, too, personally,
would appreciate the favor; for Ruth Carew and her sister are very
old, dear friends of my wife and myself; and what touches them touches
us. As ever yours, CHARLIE."
The letter finished, there was a long silence, so long a silence that
the doctor uttered a quiet, "Well, Polly?"
Still there was silence. The doctor, watching his wife's face closely,
saw that the usually firm lips and chin were trembling. He waited then
quietly until his wife spoke.
"How soon--do you think--they'll expect her?" she asked at last.
In spite of himself Dr. Chilton gave a slight start.
"You--mean--that you WILL let her go?" he cried.
His wife turned indignantly.
"Why, Thomas Chilton, what a question! Do you suppose, after a letter
like that, I could do anything BUT let her go? Besides, didn't Dr.
Ames HIMSELF ask us to? Do you think, after what that man has done for
Pollyanna, that I'd refuse him ANYTHING--no matter what it was?"
"Dear, dear! I hope, now, that the doctor won't take it into his head
to ask for--for YOU, my love," murmured the husband-of-a-year, with a
whimsical smile. But his wife only gave him a deservedly scornful
glance, and said:
"You may write Dr. Ames that we'll send Pollyanna; and ask him to tell
Miss Wetherby to give us full instructions. It must be sometime before
the tenth of next month, of course, for you sail then; and I want to
see the child properly established myself before I leave, naturally."
"When will you tell Pollyanna?"
"To-morrow, probably."
"What will you tell her?"
"I don't know--exactly; but not any more than I can't help, certainly.
Whatever happens, Thomas, we don't want to spoil Pollyanna; and no
child could help being spoiled if she once got it into her head that
she was a sort of--of--"
"Of medicine bottle with a label of full instructions for taking?"
interpolated the doctor, with a smile.
"Yes," sighed Mrs. Chilton. "It's her unconsciousness that saves the
whole thing. YOU know that, dear."
"Yes, I know," nodded the man.
"She knows, of course, that you and I, and half the town are playing
the game with her, and that we--we are wonderfully happier because we
ARE playing it." Mrs. Chilton's voice shook a little, then went on
more steadily. "But if, consciously, she should begin to be anything
but her own natural, sunny, happy little self, playing the game that
her father taught her, she would be--just what that nurse said she
sounded like--'impossible.' So, whatever I tell her, I sha'n't tell
her that she's going down to Mrs. Carew's to cheer her up," concluded
Mrs. Chilton, rising to her feet with decision, and putting away her
work.
"Which is where I think you're wise," approved the doctor.
Pollyanna was told the next day; and this was the manner of it.
"My dear," began her aunt, when the two were alone together that
morning, "how would you like to spend next winter in Boston?"
"With you?"
"No; I have decided to go with your uncle to Germany. But Mrs. Carew,
a dear friend of Dr. Ames, has asked you to come and stay with her for
the winter, and I think I shall let you go."
Pollyanna's face fell.
"But in Boston I won't have Jimmy, or Mr. Pendleton, or Mrs. Snow, or
anybody that I know, Aunt Polly."
"No, dear; but you didn't have them when you came here--till you found
them."
Pollyanna gave a sudden smile.
"Why, Aunt Polly, so I didn't! And that means that down to Boston
there are some Jimmys and Mr. Pendletons and Mrs. Snows waiting for me
that I don't know, doesn't it?"
"Yes, dear."
"Then I can be glad of that. I believe now, Aunt Polly, you know how
to play the game better than I do. I never thought of the folks down
there waiting for me to know them. And there's such a lot of 'em, too!
I saw some of them when I was there two years ago with Mrs. Gray. We
were there two whole hours, you know, on my way here from out West.
"There was a man in the station--a perfectly lovely man who told me
where to get a drink of water. Do you suppose he's there now? I'd like
to know him. And there was a nice lady with a little girl. They live
in Boston. They said they did. The little girl's name was Susie Smith.
Perhaps I could get to know them. Do you suppose I could? And there
was a boy, and another lady with a baby--only they lived in Honolulu,
so probably I couldn't find them there now. But there'd be Mrs. Carew,
anyway. Who is Mrs. Carew, Aunt Polly? Is she a relation?"
"Dear me, Pollyanna!" exclaimed Mrs. Chilton, half-laughingly,
half-despairingly. "How do you expect anybody to keep up with your
tongue, much less your thoughts, when they skip to Honolulu and back
again in two seconds! No, Mrs. Carew isn't any relation to us. She's
Miss Della Wetherby's sister. Do you remember Miss Wetherby at the
Sanatorium?"
Pollyanna clapped her hands.
"HER sister? Miss Wetherby's sister? Oh, then she'll be lovely, I
know. Miss Wetherby was. I loved Miss Wetherby. She had little
smile-wrinkles all around her eyes and mouth, and she knew the NICEST
stories. I only had her two months, though, because she only got there
a little while before I came away. At first I was sorry that I hadn't
had her ALL the time, but afterwards I was glad; for you see if I HAD
had her all the time, it would have been harder to say good-by than
'twas when I'd only had her a little while. And now it'll seem as if I
had her again, 'cause I'm going to have her sister."
Mrs. Chilton drew in her breath and bit her lip.
"But, Pollyanna, dear, you must not expect that they'll be quite
alike," she ventured.
"Why, they're SISTERS, Aunt Polly," argued the little girl, her eyes
widening; "and I thought sisters were always alike. We had two sets of
'em in the Ladies' Aiders. One set was twins, and THEY were so alike
you couldn't tell which was Mrs. Peck and which was Mrs. Jones, until
a wart grew on Mrs. Jones's nose, then of course we could, because we
looked for the wart the first thing. And that's what I told her one
day when she was complaining that people called her Mrs. Peck, and I
said if they'd only look for the wart as I did, they'd know right off.
But she acted real cross--I mean displeased, and I'm afraid she didn't
like it--though I don't see why; for I should have thought she'd been
glad there was something they could be told apart by, 'specially as
she was the president, and didn't like it when folks didn't ACT as if
she was the president--best seats and introductions and special
attentions at church suppers, you know. But she didn't, and afterwards
I heard Mrs. White tell Mrs. Rawson that Mrs. Jones had done
everything she could think of to get rid of that wart, even to trying
to put salt on a bird's tail. But I don't see how THAT could do any
good. Aunt Polly, DOES putting salt on a bird's tail help the warts on
people's noses?"
"Of course not, child! How you do run on, Pollyanna, especially if you
get started on those Ladies' Aiders!"
"Do I, Aunt Polly?" asked the little girl, ruefully. "And does it
plague you? I don't mean to plague you, honestly, Aunt Polly. And,
anyway, if I do plague you about those Ladies' Aiders, you can be kind
o' glad, for if I'm thinking of the Aiders, I'm sure to be thinking
how glad I am that I don't belong to them any longer, but have got an
aunt all my own. You can be glad of that, can't you, Aunt Polly?"
"Yes, yes, dear, of course I can, of course I can," laughed Mrs.
Chilton, rising to leave the room, and feeling suddenly very guilty
that she was conscious sometimes of a little of her old irritation
against Pollyanna's perpetual gladness.
During the next few days, while letters concerning Pollyanna's winter
stay in Boston were flying back and forth, Pollyanna herself was
preparing for that stay by a series of farewell visits to her
Beldingsville friends.
Everybody in the little Vermont village knew Pollyanna now, and almost
everybody was playing the game with her. The few who were not, were
not refraining because of ignorance of what the glad game was. So to
one house after another Pollyanna carried the news now that she was
going down to Boston to spend the winter; and loudly rose the clamor
of regret and remonstrance, all the way from Nancy in Aunt Polly's own
kitchen to the great house on the hill where lived John Pendleton.
Nancy did not hesitate to say--to every one except her mistress--that
SHE considered this Boston trip all foolishness, and that for her part
she would have been glad to take Miss Pollyanna home with her to the
Corners, she would, she would; and then Mrs. Polly could have gone to
Germany all she wanted to.
On the hill John Pendleton said practically the same thing, only he
did not hesitate to say it to Mrs. Chilton herself. As for Jimmy, the
twelve-year-old boy whom John Pendleton had taken into his home
because Pollyanna wanted him to, and whom he had now adopted--because
he wanted to himself--as for Jimmy, Jimmy was indignant, and he was
not slow to show it.
"But you've just come," he reproached Pollyanna, in the tone of voice
a small boy is apt to use when he wants to hide the fact that he has a
heart.
"Why, I've been here ever since the last of March. Besides, it isn't
as if I was going to stay. It's only for this winter."
"I don't care. You've just been away for a whole year, 'most, and if
I'd s'posed you was going away again right off, the first thing, I
wouldn't have helped one mite to meet you with flags and bands and
things, that day you come from the Sanatorium."
"Why, Jimmy Bean!" ejaculated Pollyanna, in amazed disapproval. Then,
with a touch of superiority born of hurt pride, she observed: "I'm
sure I didn't ASK you to meet me with bands and things--and you made
two mistakes in that sentence. You shouldn't say 'you was'; and I
think 'you come' is wrong. It doesn't sound right, anyway."
"Well, who cares if I did?"
Pollyanna's eyes grew still more disapproving.
"You SAID you did--when you asked me this summer to tell you when you
said things wrong, because Mr. Pendleton was trying to make you talk
right."
"Well, if you'd been brought up in a 'sylum without any folks that
cared, instead of by a whole lot of old women who didn't have anything
to do but tell you how to talk right, maybe you'd say 'you was,' and a
whole lot more worse things, Pollyanna Whittier!"
"Why, Jimmy Bean!" flared Pollyanna. "My Ladies' Aiders weren't old
women--that is, not many of them, so very old," she corrected hastily,
her usual proclivity for truth and literalness superseding her anger;
"and--"
"Well, I'm not Jimmy Bean, either," interrupted the boy, uptilting his
chin.
"You're--not-- Why, Jimmy Be-- --What do you mean?" demanded the little
girl.
"I've been adopted, LEGALLY. He's been intending to do it, all along,
he says, only he didn't get to it. Now he's done it. I'm to be called
'Jimmy Pendleton' and I'm to call him Uncle John, only I ain't--are
not--I mean, I AM not used to it yet, so I hain't--haven't begun to
call him that, much."
The boy still spoke crossly, aggrievedly, but every trace of
displeasure had fled from the little girl's face at his words. She
clapped her hands joyfully.
"Oh, how splendid! Now you've really got FOLKS--folks that care, you
know. And you won't ever have to explain that he wasn't BORN your
folks, 'cause your name's the same now. I'm so glad, GLAD, GLAD!"
The boy got up suddenly from the stone wall where they had been
sitting, and walked off. His cheeks felt hot, and his eyes smarted
with tears. It was to Pollyanna that he owed it all--this great good
that had come to him; and he knew it. And it was to Pollyanna that he
had just now been saying--
He kicked a small stone fiercely, then another, and another. He
thought those hot tears in his eyes were going to spill over and roll
down his cheeks in spite of himself. He kicked another stone, then
another; then he picked up a third stone and threw it with all his
might. A minute later he strolled back to Pollyanna still sitting on
the stone wall.
"I bet you I can hit that pine tree down there before you can," he
challenged airily.
"Bet you can't," cried Pollyanna, scrambling down from her perch.
The race was not run after all, for Pollyanna remembered just in time
that running fast was yet one of the forbidden luxuries for her. But
so far as Jimmy was concerned, it did not matter. His cheeks were no
longer hot, his eyes were not threatening to overflow with tears.
Jimmy was himself again.