COMRADES
They were a merry party--the six of them--and a congenial one. There
seemed to be no end to the new delights that came with every new day,
not the least of which was the new charm of companionship that seemed
to be a part of this new life they were living.
As Jamie said one night, when they were all sitting about the fire:
"You see, we seem to know each other so much better up here in the
woods--better in a week than we would in a year in town."
"I know it. I wonder why," murmured Mrs. Carew, her eyes dreamily
following the leaping blaze.
"I think it's something in the air," sighed Pollyanna, happily.
"There's something about the sky and the woods and the lake
so--so--well, there just is; that's all."
"I think you mean, because the world is shut out," cried Sadie Dean,
with a curious little break in her voice. (Sadie had not joined in the
laugh that followed Pollyanna's limping conclusion.) "Up here
everything is so real and true that we, too, can be our real true
selves--not what the world SAYS we are because we are rich, or poor,
or great, or humble; but what we really are, OURSELVES."
"Ho!" scoffed Jimmy, airily. "All that sounds very fine; but the real
common-sense reason is because we don't have any Mrs. Tom and Dick and
Harry sitting on their side porches and commenting on every time we
stir, and wondering among themselves where we are going, why we are
going there, and how long we're intending to stay!"
"Oh, Jimmy, how you do take the poetry out of things," reproached
Pollyanna, laughingly.
"But that's my business," flashed Jimmy. "How do you suppose I'm going
to build dams and bridges if I don't see something besides poetry in
the waterfall?"
"You can't, Pendleton! And it's the bridge--that counts--every time,"
declared Jamie in a voice that brought a sudden hush to the group
about the fire. It was for only a moment, however, for almost at once
Sadie Dean broke the silence with a gay:
"Pooh! I'd rather have the waterfall every time, without ANY bridge
around--to spoil the view!"
Everybody laughed--and it was as if a tension somewhere snapped. Then
Mrs. Carew rose to her feet.
"Come, come, children, your stern chaperon says it's bedtime!" And
with a merry chorus of good-nights the party broke up.
And so the days passed. To Pollyanna they were wonderful days, and
still the most wonderful part was the charm of close companionship--a
companionship that, while differing as to details with each one, was
yet delightful with all.
With Sadie Dean she talked of the new Home, and of what a marvelous
work Mrs. Carew was doing. They talked, too, of the old days when
Sadie was selling bows behind the counter, and of what Mrs. Carew had
done for her. Pollyanna heard, also, something of the old father and
mother "back home," and of the joy that Sadie, in her new position,
had been able to bring into their lives.
"And after all it's really YOU that began it, you know," she said one
day to Pollyanna. But Pollyanna only shook her head at this with an
emphatic:
"Nonsense! It was all Mrs. Carew."
With Mrs. Carew herself Pollyanna talked also of the Home, and of her
plans for the girls. And once, in the hush of a twilight walk, Mrs.
Carew spoke of herself and of her changed outlook on life. And she,
like Sadie Dean, said brokenly: "After all, it's really you that began
it, Pollyanna." But Pollyanna, as in Sadie Dean's case, would have
none of this; and she began to talk of Jamie, and of what HE had done.
"Jamie's a dear," Mrs. Carew answered affectionately. "And I love him
like an own son. He couldn't be dearer to me if he were really my
sister's boy."
"Then you don't think he is?"
"I don't know. We've never learned anything conclusive. Sometimes I'm
sure he is. Then again I doubt it. I think HE really believes he
is--bless his heart! At all events, one thing is sure: he has good
blood in him from somewhere. Jamie's no ordinary waif of the streets,
you know, with his talents; and the wonderful way he has responded to
teaching and training proves it."
"Of course," nodded Pollyanna. "And as long as you love him so well,
it doesn't really matter, anyway, does it, whether he's the real Jamie
or not?"
Mrs. Carew hesitated. Into her eyes crept the old somberness of
heartache.
"Not so far as he is concerned," she sighed, at last. "It's only that
sometimes I get to thinking: if he isn't our Jamie, where is--Jamie
Kent? Is he well? Is he happy? Has he any one to love him? When I get
to thinking like that, Pollyanna, I'm nearly wild. I'd give--everything
I have in the world, it seems to me, to really KNOW that this boy is
Jamie Kent."
Pollyanna used to think of this conversation sometimes, in her after
talks with Jamie. Jamie was so sure of himself.
"It's just somehow that I FEEL it's so," he said once to Pollyanna. "I
believe I am Jamie Kent. I've believed it quite a while. I'm afraid
I've believed it so long now, that--that I just couldn't bear it, to
find out I wasn't he. Mrs. Carew has done so much for me; just think
if, after all, I were only a stranger!"
"But she--loves you, Jamie."
"I know she does--and that would only hurt all the more--don't you
see?--because it would be hurting her. SHE wants me to be the real
Jamie. I know she does. Now if I could only DO something for her--make
her proud of me in some way! If I could only do something to support
myself, even, like a man! But what can I do, with--these?" He spoke
bitterly, and laid his hand on the crutches at his side.
Pollyanna was shocked and distressed. It was the first time she had
heard Jamie speak of his infirmity since the old boyhood days.
Frantically she cast about in her mind for just the right thing to
say; but before she had even thought of anything, Jamie's face had
undergone a complete change.
"But, there, forget it! I didn't mean to say it," he cried gaily. "And
'twas rank heresy to the game, wasn't it? I'm sure I'm GLAD I've got
the crutches. They're a whole lot nicer than the wheel chair!"
"And the Jolly Book--do you keep it now?" asked Pollyanna, in a voice
that trembled a little.
"Sure! I've got a whole library of jolly books now," he retorted.
"They're all in leather, dark red, except the first one. That is the
same little old notebook that Jerry gave me."
"Jerry! And I've been meaning all the time to ask for him," cried
Pollyanna. "Where is he?"
"In Boston; and his vocabulary is just as picturesque as ever, only he
has to tone it down at times. Jerry's still in the newspaper
business--but he's GETTING the news, not selling it. Reporting, you
know. I HAVE been able to help him and mumsey. And don't you suppose I
was glad? Mumsey's in a sanatorium for her rheumatism."
"And is she better?"
"Very much. She's coming out pretty soon, and going to housekeeping
with Jerry. Jerry's been making up some of his lost schooling during
these past few years. He's let me help him--but only as a loan. He's
been very particular to stipulate that."
"Of course," nodded Pollyanna, in approval. "He'd want it that way,
I'm sure. I should. It isn't nice to be under obligations that you
can't pay. I know how it is. That's why I so wish I could help Aunt
Polly out--after all she's done for me!"
"But you are helping her this summer."
Pollyanna lifted her eyebrows.
"Yes, I'm keeping summer boarders. I look it, don't I?" she
challenged, with a flourish of her hands toward her surroundings.
"Surely, never was a boarding-house mistress's task quite like mine!
And you should have heard Aunt Polly's dire predictions of what summer
boarders would be," she chuckled irrepressibly.
"What was that?"
Pollyanna shook her head decidedly.
"Couldn't possibly tell you. That's a dead secret. But--" She stopped
and sighed, her face growing wistful again. "This isn't going to last,
you know. It can't. Summer boarders don't. I've got to do something
winters. I've been thinking. I believe--I'll write stories."
Jamie turned with a start.
"You'll--what?" he demanded.
"Write stories--to sell, you know. You needn't look so surprised! Lots
of folks do that. I knew two girls in Germany who did."
"Did you ever try it?" Jamie still spoke a little queerly.
"N-no; not yet," admitted Pollyanna. Then, defensively, in answer to
the expression on his face, she bridled: "I TOLD you I was keeping
summer boarders now. I can't do both at once."
"Of course not!"
She threw him a reproachful glance.
"You don't think I can ever do it?"
"I didn't say so."
"No; but you look it. I don't see why I can't. It isn't like singing.
You don't have to have a voice for it. And it isn't like an instrument
that you have to learn how to play."
"I think it is--a little--like that." Jamie's voice was low. His eyes
were turned away.
"How? What do you mean? Why, Jamie, just a pencil and paper, so--that
isn't like learning to play the piano or violin!"
There was a moment's silence. Then came the answer, still in that low,
diffident voice; still with the eyes turned away.
"The instrument that you play on, Pollyanna, will be the great heart
of the world; and to me that seems the most wonderful instrument of
all--to learn. Under your touch, if you are skilful, it will respond
with smiles or tears, as you will."
[Illustration: "'The instrument that you play on, Pollyanna, will be
the great heart of the world'"]
Pollyanna drew a tremulous sigh. Her eyes grew wet.
"Oh, Jamie, how beautifully you do put things--always! I never thought
of it that way. But it's so, isn't it? How I would love to do it!
Maybe I couldn't do--all that. But I've read stories in the magazines,
lots of them. Seems as if I could write some like those, anyway. I
LOVE to tell stories. I'm always repeating those you tell, and I
always laugh and cry, too, just as I do when YOU tell them."
Jamie turned quickly.
"DO they make you laugh and cry, Pollyanna--really?" There was a
curious eagerness in his voice.
"Of course they do, and you know it, Jamie. And they used to long ago,
too, in the Public Garden. Nobody can tell stories like you, Jamie.
YOU ought to be the one writing stories; not I. And, say, Jamie, why
don't you? You could do it lovely, I know!"
There was no answer. Jamie, apparently, did not hear; perhaps because
he called, at that instant, to a chipmunk that was scurrying through
the bushes near by.
It was not always with Jamie, nor yet with Mrs. Carew and Sadie Dean
that Pollyanna had delightful walks and talks, however; very often it
was with Jimmy, or John Pendleton.
Pollyanna was sure now that she had never before known John Pendleton.
The old taciturn moroseness seemed entirely gone since they came to
camp. He rowed and swam and fished and tramped with fully as much
enthusiasm as did Jimmy himself, and with almost as much vigor. Around
the camp fire at night he quite rivaled Jamie with his story-telling
of adventures, both laughable and thrilling, that had befallen him in
his foreign travels.
"In the 'Desert of Sarah,' Nancy used to call it," laughed Pollyanna
one night, as she joined the rest in begging for a story.
Better than all this, however, in Pollyanna's opinion, were the times
when John Pendleton, with her alone, talked of her mother as he used
to know her and love her, in the days long gone. That he did so talk
with her was a joy to Pollyanna, but a great surprise, too; for, never
in the past, had John Pendleton talked so freely of the girl whom he
had so loved--hopelessly. Perhaps John Pendleton himself felt some of
the surprise, for once he said to Pollyanna, musingly:
"I wonder why I'm talking to you like this."
"Oh, but I love to have you," breathed Pollyanna.
"Yes, I know--but I wouldn't think I would do it. It must be, though,
that it's because you are so like her, as I knew her. You are very
like your mother, my dear."
"Why, I thought my mother was BEAUTIFUL!" cried Pollyanna, in
unconcealed amazement.
John Pendleton smiled quizzically.
"She was, my dear."
Pollyanna looked still more amazed.
"Then I don't see how I CAN be like her!"
The man laughed outright.
"Pollyanna, if some girls had said that, I--well, never mind what I'd
say. You little witch!--you poor, homely little Pollyanna!"
Pollyanna flashed a genuinely distressed reproof straight into the
man's merry eyes.
"Please, Mr. Pendleton, don't look like that, and don't tease
me--about THAT. I'd so LOVE to be beautiful--though of course it
sounds silly to say it. And I HAVE a mirror, you know."
"Then I advise you to look in it--when you're talking sometime,"
observed the man sententiously.
Pollyanna's eyes flew wide open.
"Why, that's just what Jimmy said," she cried.
"Did he, indeed--the young rascal!" retorted John Pendleton, dryly.
Then, with one of the curiously abrupt changes of manner peculiar to
him, he said, very low: "You have your mother's eyes and smile,
Pollyanna; and to me you are--beautiful."
And Pollyanna, her eyes blinded with sudden hot tears, was silenced.
Dear as were these talks, however, they still were not quite like the
talks with Jimmy, to Pollyanna. For that matter, she and Jimmy did not
need to TALK to be happy. Jimmy was always so comfortable, and
comforting; whether they talked or not did not matter. Jimmy always
understood. There was no pulling on her heart-strings for sympathy,
with Jimmy--Jimmy was delightfully big, and strong, and happy. Jimmy
was not sorrowing for a long-lost nephew, nor pining for the loss of a
boyhood sweetheart. Jimmy did not have to swing himself painfully
about on a pair of crutches--all of which was so hard to see, and
know, and think of. With Jimmy one could be just glad, and happy, and
free. Jimmy was such a dear! He always rested one so--did Jimmy!