WHEN POLLYANNA WAS EXPECTED
All Beldingsville was fairly aquiver with excitement. Not since
Pollyanna Whittier came home from the Sanatorium, WALKING, had there
been such a chatter of talk over back-yard fences and on every street
corner. To-day, too, the center of interest was Pollyanna. Once again
Pollyanna was coming home--but so different a Pollyanna, and so
different a homecoming!
Pollyanna was twenty now. For six years she had spent her winters in
Germany, her summers leisurely traveling with Dr. Chilton and his
wife. Only once during that time had she been in Beldingsville, and
then it was for but a short four weeks the summer she was sixteen. Now
she was coming home--to stay, report said; she and her Aunt Polly.
The doctor would not be with them. Six months before, the town had
been shocked and saddened by the news that the doctor had died
suddenly. Beldingsville had expected then that Mrs. Chilton and
Pollyanna would return at once to the old home. But they had not come.
Instead had come word that the widow and her niece would remain abroad
for a time. The report said that, in entirely new surroundings, Mrs.
Chilton was trying to seek distraction and relief from her great
sorrow.
Very soon, however, vague rumors, and rumors not so vague, began to
float through the town that, financially, all was not well with Mrs.
Polly Chilton. Certain railroad stocks, in which it was known that the
Harrington estate had been heavily interested, wavered uncertainly,
then tumbled into ruin and disaster. Other investments, according to
report, were in a most precarious condition. From the doctor's estate,
little could be expected. He had not been a rich man, and his expenses
had been heavy for the past six years. Beldingsville was not
surprised, therefore, when, not quite six months after the doctor's
death, word came that Mrs. Chilton and Pollyanna were coming home.
Once more the old Harrington homestead, so long closed and silent,
showed up-flung windows and wide-open doors. Once more Nancy--now Mrs.
Timothy Durgin--swept and scrubbed and dusted until the old place
shone in spotless order.
"No, I hain't had no instructions ter do it; I hain't, I hain't,"
Nancy explained to curious friends and neighbors who halted at the
gate, or came more boldly up to the doorways. "Mother Durgin's had the
key, 'course, and has come in regerler to air up and see that things
was all right; and Mis' Chilton just wrote and said she and Miss
Pollyanna was comin' this week Friday, and ter please see that the
rooms and sheets was aired, and ter leave the key under the side-door
mat on that day.
"Under the mat, indeed! Just as if I'd leave them two poor things ter
come into this house alone, and all forlorn like that--and me only a
mile away, a-sittin' in my own parlor like as if I was a fine lady an'
hadn't no heart at all, at all! Just as if the poor things hadn't
enough ter stand without that--a-comin' into this house an' the doctor
gone--bless his kind heart!--an' never comin' back. An' no money, too.
Did ye hear about that? An' ain't it a shame, a shame! Think of Miss
Polly--I mean, Mis' Chilton--bein' poor! My stars and stockings, I
can't sense it--I can't, I can't!"
Perhaps to no one did Nancy speak so interestedly as she did to a
tall, good-looking young fellow with peculiarly frank eyes and a
particularly winning smile, who cantered up to the side door on a
mettlesome thoroughbred at ten o'clock that Thursday morning. At the
same time, to no one did she talk with so much evident embarrassment,
so far as the manner of address was concerned; for her tongue stumbled
and blundered out a "Master Jimmy--er--Mr. Bean--I mean, Mr.
Pendleton, Master Jimmy!" with a nervous precipitation that sent the
young man himself into a merry peal of laughter.
"Never mind, Nancy! Let it go at whatever comes handiest," he
chuckled. "I've found out what I wanted to know: Mrs. Chilton and her
niece really are expected to-morrow."
"Yes, sir, they be, sir," courtesied Nancy, "--more's the pity! Not
but that I shall be glad enough ter see 'em, you understand, but it's
the WAY they're a-comin'."
"Yes, I know. I understand," nodded the youth, gravely, his eyes
sweeping the fine old house before him. "Well, I suppose that part
can't be helped. But I'm glad you're doing--just what you are doing.
That WILL help a whole lot," he finished with a bright smile, as he
wheeled about and rode rapidly down the driveway.
Back on the steps Nancy wagged her head wisely.
"I ain't surprised, Master Jimmy," she declared aloud, her admiring
eyes following the handsome figures of horse and man. "I ain't
surprised that you ain't lettin' no grass grow under your feet 'bout
inquirin' for Miss Pollyanna. I said long ago 'twould come sometime,
an' it's bound to--what with your growin' so handsome and tall. An' I
hope 'twill; I do, I do. It'll be just like a book, what with her
a-findin' you an' gettin' you into that grand home with Mr. Pendleton.
My, but who'd ever take you now for that little Jimmy Bean that used
to be! I never did see such a change in anybody--I didn't, I didn't!"
she answered, with one last look at the rapidly disappearing figures
far down the road.
Something of the same thought must have been in the mind of John
Pendleton some time later that same morning, for, from the veranda of
his big gray house on Pendleton Hill, John Pendleton was watching the
rapid approach of that same horse and rider; and in his eyes was an
expression very like the one that had been in Mrs. Nancy Durgin's. On
his lips, too, was an admiring "Jove! what a handsome pair!" as the
two dashed by on the way to the stable.
Five minutes later the youth came around the corner of the house and
slowly ascended the veranda steps.
"Well, my boy, is it true? Are they coming?" asked the man, with
visible eagerness.
"Yes."
"When?"
"To-morrow." The young fellow dropped himself into a chair.
At the crisp terseness of the answer, John Pendleton frowned. He threw
a quick look into the young man's face. For a moment he hesitated;
then, a little abruptly, he asked:
"Why, son, what's the matter?"
"Matter? Nothing, sir."
"Nonsense! I know better. You left here an hour ago so eager to be off
that wild horses could not have held you. Now you sit humped up in
that chair and look as if wild horses couldn't drag you out of it. If
I didn't know better I'd think you weren't glad that our friends are
coming."
He paused, evidently for a reply. But he did not get it.
"Why, Jim, AREN'T you glad they're coming?"
The young fellow laughed and stirred restlessly.
"Why, yes, of course."
"Humph! You act like it."
The youth laughed again. A boyish red flamed into his face.
"Well, it's only that I was thinking--of Pollyanna."
"Pollyanna! Why, man alive, you've done nothing but prattle of
Pollyanna ever since you came home from Boston and found she was
expected. I thought you were dying to see Pollyanna."
The other leaned forward with curious intentness.
"That's exactly it! See? You said it a minute ago. It's just as if
yesterday wild horses couldn't keep me from seeing Pollyanna; and now,
to-day, when I know she's coming--they couldn't drag me to see her."
"Why, JIM!"
At the shocked incredulity on John Pendleton's face, the younger man
fell back in his chair with an embarrassed laugh.
"Yes, I know. It sounds nutty, and I don't expect I can make you
understand. But, somehow, I don't think--I ever wanted Pollyanna to
grow up. She was such a dear, just as she was. I like to think of her
as I saw her last, her earnest, freckled little face, her yellow
pigtails, her tearful: 'Oh, yes, I'm glad I'm going; but I think I
shall be a little gladder when I come back.' That's the last time I
saw her. You know we were in Egypt that time she was here four years
ago."
"I know. I see exactly what you mean, too. I think I felt the same
way--till I saw her last winter in Rome."
The other turned eagerly.
"Sure enough, you have seen her! Tell me about her."
A shrewd twinkle came into John Pendleton's eyes.
"Oh, but I thought you didn't want to know Pollyanna--grown up."
With a grimace the young fellow tossed this aside.
"Is she pretty?"
"Oh, ye young men!" shrugged John Pendleton, in mock despair. "Always
the first question--'Is she pretty?'!"
"Well, is she?" insisted the youth.
"I'll let you judge for yourself. If you--On second thoughts, though,
I believe I won't. You might be too disappointed. Pollyanna isn't
pretty, so far as regular features, curls, and dimples go. In fact, to
my certain knowledge the great cross in Pollyanna's life thus far is
that she is so sure she isn't pretty. Long ago she told me that black
curls were one of the things she was going to have when she got to
Heaven; and last year in Rome she said something else. It wasn't much,
perhaps, so far as words went, but I detected the longing beneath. She
said she did wish that sometime some one would write a novel with a
heroine who had straight hair and a freckle on her nose; but that she
supposed she ought to be glad girls in books didn't have to have
them."
"That sounds like the old Pollyanna."
"Oh, you'll still find her--Pollyanna," smiled the man, quizzically.
"Besides, _I_ think she's pretty. Her eyes are lovely. She is the
picture of health. She carries herself with all the joyous springiness
of youth, and her whole face lights up so wonderfully when she talks
that you quite forget whether her features are regular or not."
"Does she still--play the game?"
John Pendleton smiled fondly.
"I imagine she plays it, but she doesn't say much about it now, I
fancy. Anyhow, she didn't to me, the two or three times I saw her."
There was a short silence; then, a little slowly, young Pendleton
said:
"I think that was one of the things that was worrying me. That game
has been so much to so many people. It has meant so much everywhere,
all through the town! I couldn't bear to think of her giving it up and
NOT playing it. At the same time I couldn't fancy a grown-up Pollyanna
perpetually admonishing people to be glad for something. Someway,
I--well, as I said, I--I just didn't want Pollyanna to grow up,
anyhow."
"Well, I wouldn't worry," shrugged the elder man, with a peculiar
smile. "Always, with Pollyanna, you know, it was the 'clearing-up
shower,' both literally and figuratively; and I think you'll find she
lives up to the same principle now--though perhaps not quite in the
same way. Poor child, I fear she'll need some kind of game to make
existence endurable, for a while, at least."
"Do you mean because Mrs. Chilton has lost her money? Are they so very
poor, then?"
"I suspect they are. In fact, they are in rather bad shape, so far as
money matters go, as I happen to know. Mrs. Chilton's own fortune has
shrunk unbelievably, and poor Tom's estate is very small, and
hopelessly full of bad debts--professional services never paid for,
and that never will be paid for. Tom could never say no when his help
was needed, and all the dead beats in town knew it and imposed on him
accordingly. Expenses have been heavy with him lately. Besides, he
expected great things when he should have completed this special work
in Germany. Naturally he supposed his wife and Pollyanna were more
than amply provided for through the Harrington estate; so he had no
worry in that direction."
"Hm-m; I see, I see. Too bad, too bad!"
"But that isn't all. It was about two months after Tom's death that I
saw Mrs. Chilton and Pollyanna in Rome, and Mrs. Chilton then was in a
terrible state. In addition to her sorrow, she had just begun to get
an inkling of the trouble with her finances, and she was nearly
frantic. She refused to come home. She declared she never wanted to
see Beldingsville, or anybody in it, again. You see, she has always
been a peculiarly proud woman, and it was all affecting her in a
rather curious way. Pollyanna said that her aunt seemed possessed with
the idea that Beldingsville had not approved of her marrying Dr.
Chilton in the first place, at her age; and now that he was dead, she
felt that they were utterly out of sympathy in any grief that she
might show. She resented keenly, too, the fact that they must now know
that she was poor as well as widowed. In short, she had worked herself
Into an utterly morbid, wretched state, as unreasonable as it was
terrible. Poor little Pollyanna! It was a marvel to me how she stood
it. All is, if Mrs. Chilton kept it up, and continues to keep it up,
that child will be a wreck. That's why I said Pollyanna would need
some kind of a game if ever anybody did."
"The pity of it!--to think of that happening to Pollyanna!" exclaimed
the young man, in a voice that was not quite steady.
"Yes; and you can see all is not right by the way they are coming
to-day--so quietly, with not a word to anybody. That was Polly
Chilton's doings, I'll warrant. She didn't WANT to be met by anybody.
I understand she wrote to no one but her Old Tom's wife, Mrs. Durgin,
who had the keys."
"Yes, so Nancy told me--good old soul! She'd got the whole house open,
and had contrived somehow to make it look as if it wasn't a tomb of
dead hopes and lost pleasures. Of course the grounds looked fairly
well, for Old Tom has kept them up, after a fashion. But it made my
heart ache--the whole thing."
There was a long silence, then, curtly, John Pendleton suggested:
"They ought to be met."
"They will be met."
"Are YOU going to the station?"
"I am."
"Then you know what train they're coming on."
"Oh, no. Neither does Nancy."
"Then how will you manage?"
"I'm going to begin in the morning and go to every train till they
come," laughed the young man, a bit grimly. "Timothy's going, too,
with the family carriage. After all, there aren't many trains, anyway,
that they can come on, you know."
"Hm-m, I know," said John Pendleton. "Jim, I admire your nerve, but
not your judgment. I'm glad you're going to follow your nerve and not
your judgment, however--and I wish you good luck."
"Thank you, sir," smiled the young man dolefully. "I need 'em--your
good wishes--all right, all right, as Nancy says."