Pollyanna Grows Up

Della Wetherby tripped up the somewhat imposing steps of her sister’s Commonwealth Avenue home and pressed an energetic finger against the electric-bell button. From the tip of her wing-trimmed hat to the toe of her low-heeled shoe she radiated health, capability, and alert decision. Even her voice, as she greeted the maid that opened the door, vibrated with the joy of living.

“Good morning, Mary. Is my sister in?”

“Y-yes, ma’am, Mrs. Carew is in,” hesitated the girl; “but⁠—she gave orders she’d see no one.”

“Did she? Well, I’m no one,” smiled Miss Wetherby, “so she’ll see me. Don’t worry⁠—I’ll take the blame,” she nodded, in answer to the frightened remonstrance in the girl’s eyes. “Where is she⁠—in her sitting-room?”

“Y-yes, ma’am; but⁠—that is, she said⁠—” Miss Wetherby, however, was already halfway up the broad stairway; and, with a despairing backward glance, the maid turned away.

In the hall above Della Wetherby unhesitatingly walked toward a half-open door, and knocked.

“Well, Mary,” answered a “dear-me-what-now” voice. “Haven’t I⁠—Oh, Della!” The voice grew suddenly warm with love and surprise. “You dear girl, where did you come from?”

“Yes, it’s Della,” smiled that young woman, blithely, already halfway across the room. “I’ve come from an over-Sunday at the beach with two of the other nurses, and I’m on my way back to the Sanatorium now. That is, I’m here now, but I shan’t be long. I stepped in for⁠—this,” she finished, giving the owner of the “dear-me-what-now” voice a hearty kiss.

“What a shame! She didn’t hear, did she?” Pollyanna was saying, her eyes, also, wistfully following the nurse. “And I didn’t want her to go now a bit. But then, I’ve got you, haven’t I? I can be glad for that.”

“Oh, yes, you’ve got me⁠—and I’ve got you,” returned the lady, not very graciously. “Come, we go this way,” she directed, with a motion toward the right.

Obediently Pollyanna turned and trotted at Mrs. Carew’s side, through the huge station; but she looked up once or twice rather anxiously into the lady’s unsmiling face. At last she spoke hesitatingly.

“I expect maybe you thought⁠—I’d be pretty,” she hazarded, in a troubled voice.

“P⁠—pretty?” repeated Mrs. Carew.

“Yes⁠—with curls, you know, and all that. And of course you did wonder how I did look, just as I did you. Only I knew you’d be pretty and nice, on account of your sister. I had her to go by, and you didn’t have anybody. And of course I’m not pretty, on account of the freckles, and it isn’t nice when you’ve been expecting a pretty little girl, to have one come like me; and⁠—”

“Nonsense, child!” interrupted Mrs. Carew, a trifle sharply. “Come, we’ll see to your trunk now, then we’ll go home. I had hoped that my sister would come with us; but it seems she didn’t see fit⁠—even for this one night.”

Pollyanna smiled and nodded.

“I know; but she couldn’t, probably. Somebody wanted her, I expect. Somebody was always wanting her at the Sanatorium.

Twice again Pollyanna tried the same experiment, but with like disappointing results. Soon she came upon the little pond that she had seen sparkling in the sunlight through the trees. It was a beautiful pond, and on it were several pretty little boats full of laughing children. As she watched them, Pollyanna felt more and more dissatisfied to remain by herself. It was then that, spying a man sitting alone not far away, she advanced slowly toward him and sat down on the other end of the bench. Once Pollyanna would have danced unhesitatingly to the man’s side and suggested acquaintanceship with a cheery confidence that had no doubt of a welcome; but recent rebuffs had filled her with unaccustomed diffidence. Covertly she looked at the man now.

He was not very good to look at. His garments, though new, were dusty, and plainly showed lack of care. They were of the cut and style (though Pollyanna of course did not know this) that the State gives its prisoners as a freedom suit. His face was a pasty white, and was adorned with a week’s beard. His hat was pulled far down over his eyes. With his hands in his pockets he sat idly staring at the ground.

For a long minute Pollyanna said nothing; then hopefully she began:

“It is a nice day, isn’t it?”

The man turned his head with a start.

“Eh? Oh⁠—er⁠—what did you say?” he questioned, with a curiously frightened look around to make sure the remark was addressed to him.

“I said ’twas a nice day,” explained Pollyanna in hurried earnestness; “but I don’t care about that especially.

“What do you do?” asked Pollyanna interestedly.

“Do? I’ll tell you what I do,” cried the other, with sudden bitterness. “From morning till night I sell fluffy laces and perky bows to girls that laugh and talk and know each other. Then I go home to a little back room up three flights just big enough to hold a lumpy cot-bed, a washstand with a nicked pitcher, one rickety chair, and me. It’s like a furnace in the summer and an ice box in the winter; but it’s all the place I’ve got, and I’m supposed to stay in it⁠—when I ain’t workin’. But I’ve come out today. I ain’t goin’ to stay in that room, and I ain’t goin’ to go to any old library to read, neither. It’s our last half-holiday this year⁠—and an extra one, at that; and I’m going to have a good time⁠—for once. I’m just as young, and I like to laugh and joke just as well as them girls I sell bows to all day. Well, today I’m going to laugh and joke.”

It sounded like coquetry. In any other girl it would have been coquetry, Pendleton decided. But, looking into the face before him now, Pendleton knew that it was not coquetry. He knew, too, suddenly, why Pollyanna had seemed so different from any girl he had ever known. Something of her old literal way of looking at things still clung to her.

“Why aren’t you pretty?” he asked.

Even as he uttered the question, and sure as he was of his estimate of Pollyanna’s character, Pendleton quite held his breath at his temerity. He could not help thinking of how quickly any other girl he knew would have resented that implied acceptance of her claim to no beauty. But Pollyanna’s first words showed him that even this lurking fear of his was quite groundless.

“Why, I just am not,” she laughed, a little ruefully. “I wasn’t made that way. Maybe you don’t remember, but long ago, when I was a little girl, it always seemed to me that one of the nicest things Heaven was going to give me when I got there was black curls.”

“And is that your chief desire now?”

“N-no, maybe not,” hesitated Pollyanna. “But I still think I’d like them. Besides, my eyelashes aren’t long enough, and my nose isn’t Grecian, or Roman, or any of those delightfully desirable ones that belong to a ‘type.’ It’s just nose. And my face is too long, or too short, I’ve forgotten which; but I measured it once with one of those ‘correct-for-beauty’ tests, and it wasn’t right, anyhow.