Pollyanna Eleanor H. Porter (classic english novels txt) đ
- Author: Eleanor H. Porter
Book online «Pollyanna Eleanor H. Porter (classic english novels txt) đ». Author Eleanor H. Porter
âAs if I would have any but you!â resented an indignant voice.
âBut you willâ âwhen you know; youâre so kind and good! Why, think of the prisms and the gold pieces, and all that money you save for the heathen, andâ ââ
âPollyanna!â interrupted the man, savagely. âOnce for all let us end that nonsense! Iâve tried to tell you half a dozen times before. There is no money for the heathen. I never sent a penny to them in my life. There!â
He lifted his chin and braced himself to meet what he expectedâ âthe grieved disappointment of Pollyannaâs eyes. To his amazement, however, there was neither grief nor disappointment in Pollyannaâs eyes. There was only surprised joy.
âOh, oh!â she cried, clapping her hands. âIâm so glad! That is,â she corrected, coloring distressfully, âI donât mean that Iâm not sorry for the heathen, only just now I canât help being glad that you donât want the little India boys, because all the rest have wanted them. And so Iâm glad youâd rather have Jimmy Bean. Now I know youâll take him!â
âTakeâ âwho?â
âJimmy Bean. Heâs the âchildâs presence,â you know; and heâll be so glad to be it. I had to tell him last week that even my Ladiesâ Aid out West wouldnât take him, and he was so disappointed. But nowâ âwhen he hears of thisâ âheâll be so glad!â
âWill he? Well, I wonât,â ejaculated the man, decisively. âPollyanna, this is sheer nonsense!â
âYou donât meanâ âyou wonât take him?â
âI certainly do mean just that.â
âBut heâd be a lovely childâs presence,â faltered Pollyanna. She was almost crying now. âAnd you couldnât be lonesomeâ âwith Jimmy âround.â
âI donât doubt it,â rejoined the man; âbutâ âI think I prefer the lonesomeness.â
It was then that Pollyanna, for the first time in weeks, suddenly remembered something Nancy had once told her. She raised her chin aggrievedly.
âMaybe you think a nice live little boy wouldnât be better than that old dead skeleton you keep somewhere; but I think it would!â
âSkeleton?â
âYes. Nancy said you had one in your closet, somewhere.â
âWhy, whatâ ââ Suddenly the man threw back his head and laughed. He laughed very heartily indeedâ âso heartily that Pollyanna began to cry from pure nervousness. When he saw that, John Pendleton sat erect very promptly. His face grew grave at once.
âPollyanna, I suspect you are rightâ âmore right than you know,â he said gently. âIn fact, I know that a ânice live little boyâ would be far better thanâ âmy skeleton in the closet; onlyâ âwe arenât always willing to make the exchange. We are apt to still cling toâ âour skeletons, Pollyanna. However, suppose you tell me a little more about this nice little boy.â And Pollyanna told him.
Perhaps the laugh cleared the air; or perhaps the pathos of Jimmy Beanâs story as told by Pollyannaâs eager little lips touched a heart already strangely softened. At all events, when Pollyanna went home that night she carried with her an invitation for Jimmy Bean himself to call at the great house with Pollyanna the next Saturday afternoon.
âAnd Iâm so glad, and Iâm sure youâll like him,â sighed Pollyanna, as she said goodbye. âI do so want Jimmy Bean to have a homeâ âand folks that care, you know.â
XXII Sermons and WoodboxesOn the afternoon that Pollyanna told John Pendleton of Jimmy Bean, the Rev. Paul Ford climbed the hill and entered the Pendleton Woods, hoping that the hushed beauty of Godâs out-of-doors would still the tumult that His children of men had wrought.
The Rev. Paul Ford was sick at heart. Month by month, for a year past, conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse and worse; until it seemed that now, turn which way he would, he encountered only wrangling, backbiting, scandal, and jealousy. He had argued, pleaded, rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always and through all he had prayedâ âearnestly, hopefully. But today miserably he was forced to own that matters were no better, but rather worse.
Two of his deacons were at swordsâ points over a silly something that only endless brooding had made of any account. Three of his most energetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladiesâ Aid Society because a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues into a devouring flame of scandal. The choir had split over the amount of solo work given to a fanciedly preferred singer. Even the Christian Endeavor Society was in a ferment of unrest owing to open criticism of two of its officers. As to the Sunday schoolâ âit had been the resignation of its superintendent and two of its teachers that had been the last straw, and that had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer and meditation.
Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford faced the thing squarely. To his mind, the crisis had come. Something must be doneâ âand done at once. The entire work of the church was at a standstill. The Sunday services, the weekday prayer meeting, the missionary teas, even the suppers and socials were becoming less and less well attended. True, a few conscientious workers were still left. But they pulled at cross purposes, usually; and always they showed themselves to be acutely aware of the critical eyes all about them, and of the tongues that had nothing to do but to talk about what the eyes saw.
And because of all this, the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well that he (Godâs minister), the church, the town, and even Christianity itself was suffering; and must suffer still more unlessâ â
Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But what?
Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he had made for his next Sundayâs sermon. Frowningly he looked at them. His mouth settled into stern lines, as aloud, very impressively, he read the verses on which he had determined to speak:
âââBut woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees,
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