Pollyanna Grows Up Eleanor H. Porter (booksvooks .TXT) 📖

even his beloved bridges were as nothing when weighed against the smile in a girl’s eyes and the word on a girl’s lips. He realized that the most wonderful span in the world to him would be the thing that could help him to cross the chasm of fear and doubt that he felt lay between him and Pollyanna⁠—doubt because of Pollyanna; fear because of Jamie.

Not until he had seen Pollyanna in jeopardy that day in the pasture had he realized how empty would be the world⁠—his world⁠—without her. Not until his wild dash for safety with Pollyanna in his arms had he realized how precious she was to him. For a moment, indeed, with his arms about her, and hers clinging about his neck, he had felt that she was indeed his; and even in that supreme moment of danger he knew the thrill of supreme bliss. Then, a little later, he had seen Jamie’s face, and Jamie’s hands. To him they could mean but one thing: Jamie, too, loved Pollyanna, and Jamie had to stand by, helpless⁠—“tied to two sticks.” That was what he had said. Jimmy believed that, had he himself been obliged to stand by helpless, “tied to two sticks,” while another rescued the girl that he loved, he would have looked like that.

Jimmy had gone back to camp that day with his thoughts in a turmoil of fear and rebellion. He wondered if Pollyanna cared for Jamie; that was where the fear came in. But even if she did care, a little, must he stand aside, weakly, and let Jamie, without a struggle, make her learn to care more? That was where the rebellion came in. Indeed, no, he would not do it, decided Jimmy. It should be a fair fight between them.

Then, all by himself as he was, Jimmy flushed hot to the roots of his hair. Would it be a “fair” fight? Could any fight between him and Jamie be a “fair” fight? Jimmy felt suddenly as he had felt years before when, as a lad, he had challenged a new boy to a fight for an apple they both claimed, then, at the first blow, had discovered that the new boy had a crippled arm. He had purposely lost then, of course, and had let the crippled boy win. But he told himself fiercely now that this case was different. It was no apple that was at stake. It was his life’s happiness. It might even be Pollyanna’s life’s happiness, too. Perhaps she did not care for Jamie at all, but would care for her old friend, Jimmy, if he but once showed her he wanted her to care. And he would show her. He would⁠—

Once again Jimmy blushed hotly. But he frowned, too, angrily: if only he could forget how Jamie had looked when he had uttered that moaning “tied to two sticks!” If only⁠—But what was the use? It was not a fair fight, and he knew it. He knew, too, right there and then, that his decision would be just what it afterwards proved to be: he would watch and wait. He would give Jamie his chance; and if Pollyanna showed that she cared, he would take himself off and away quite out of their lives; and they should never know, either of them, how bitterly he was suffering. He would go back to his bridges⁠—as if any bridge, though it led to the moon itself, could compare for a moment with Pollyanna! But he would do it. He must do it.

It was all very fine and heroic, and Jimmy felt so exalted he was atingle with something that was almost happiness when he finally dropped off to sleep that night. But martyrdom in theory and practice differs woefully, as would-be martyrs have found out from time immemorial. It was all very well to decide alone and in the dark that he would give Jamie his chance; but it was quite another matter really to do it when it involved nothing less than the leaving of Pollyanna and Jamie together almost every time he saw them. Then, too, he was very much worried at Pollyanna’s apparent attitude toward the lame youth. It looked very much to Jimmy as if she did indeed care for him, so watchful was she of his comfort, so apparently eager to be with him. Then, as if to settle any possible doubt in Jimmy’s mind, there came the day when Sadie Dean had something to say on the subject.

They were all out in the tennis court. Sadie was sitting alone when Jimmy strolled up to her.

“You next with Pollyanna, isn’t it?” he queried.

She shook her head.

“Pollyanna isn’t playing any more this morning.”

“Isn’t playing!” frowned Jimmy, who had been counting on his own game with Pollyanna. “Why not?”

For a brief minute Sadie Dean did not answer; then with very evident difficulty she said:

“Pollyanna told me last night that she thought we were playing tennis too much; that it wasn’t kind to⁠—Mr. Carew, as long as he can’t play.”

“I know; but⁠—” Jimmy stopped helplessly, the frown plowing a deeper furrow into his forehead. The next instant he fairly started with surprise at the tense something in Sadie Dean’s voice, as she said:

“But he doesn’t want her to stop. He doesn’t want any one of us to make any difference⁠—for him. It’s that that hurts him so. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand! But I do. She thinks she does, though!”

Something in words or manner sent a sudden pang to Jimmy’s heart. He threw a sharp look into her face. A question flew to his lips. For a moment he held it back; then, trying to hide his earnestness with a bantering smile, he let it come.

“Why, Miss Dean, you don’t mean to convey the idea that⁠—that there’s any special interest in each other⁠—between those two, do you?”

She gave him a scornful glance.

“Where have your eyes been? She worships him! I mean⁠—they worship each other,” she corrected hastily.

Jimmy,