CHAPTER XXII
COMRADES
They were a merry party--the six of them--and a congenial one. Thereseemed 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 seemedto 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 thewoods--better in a week than we would in a year in town."
"I know it. I wonder why," murmured Mrs. Carew, her eyes dreamilyfollowing 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 lakeso--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 thelaugh that followed Pollyanna's limping conclusion.) "Up hereeverything is so real and true that we, too, can be our real trueselves--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 realcommon-sense reason is because we don't have any Mrs. Tom and Dick andHarry sitting on their side porches and commenting on every time westir, and wondering among themselves where we are going, why we aregoing there, and how long we're intending to stay!"
"Oh, Jimmy, how you do take the poetry out of things," reproachedPollyanna, laughingly.
"But that's my business," flashed Jimmy. "How do you suppose I'm goingto build dams and bridges if I don't see something besides poetry inthe 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 groupabout the fire. It was for only a moment, however, for almost at onceSadie Dean broke the silence with a gay:
"Pooh! I'd rather have the waterfall every time, without ANY bridgearound--to spoil the view!"
Everybody laughed--and it was as if a tension somewhere snapped. ThenMrs. Carew rose to her feet.
"Come, come, children, your stern chaperon says it's bedtime!" Andwith a merry chorus of good-nights the party broke up.
And so the days passed. To Pollyanna they were wonderful days, andstill the most wonderful part was the charm of close companionship--acompanionship that, while differing as to details with each one, wasyet delightful with all.
With Sadie Dean she talked of the new Home, and of what a marvelouswork Mrs. Carew was doing. They talked, too, of the old days whenSadie was selling bows behind the counter, and of what Mrs. Carew haddone for her. Pollyanna heard, also, something of the old father andmother "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 oneday to Pollyanna. But Pollyanna only shook her head at this with anemphatic:
"Nonsense! It was all Mrs. Carew."
With Mrs. Carew herself Pollyanna talked also of the Home, and of herplans 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 beganit, Pollyanna." But Pollyanna, as in Sadie Dean's case, would havenone 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 himlike an own son. He couldn't be dearer to me if he were really mysister's boy."
"Then you don't think he is?"
"I don't know. We've never learned anything conclusive. Sometimes I'msure he is. Then again I doubt it. I think HE really believes heis--bless his heart! At all events, one thing is sure: he has goodblood in him from somewhere. Jamie's no ordinary waif of the streets,you know, with his talents; and the wonderful way he has responded toteaching 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 Jamieor not?"
Mrs. Carew hesitated. Into her eyes crept the old somberness ofheartache.
"Not so far as he is concerned," she sighed, at last. "It's only thatsometimes I get to thinking: if he isn't our Jamie, where is--JamieKent? Is he well? Is he happy? Has he any one to love him? When I getto thinking like that, Pollyanna, I'm nearly wild. I'd give--everythingI have in the world, it seems to me, to really KNOW that this boy isJamie Kent."
Pollyanna used to think of this conversation sometimes, in her aftertalks with Jamie. Jamie was so sure of himself.
"It's just somehow that I FEEL it's so," he said once to Pollyanna. "Ibelieve I am Jamie Kent. I've believed it quite a while. I'm afraidI've believed it so long now, that--that I just couldn't bear it, tofind out I wasn't he. Mrs. Carew has done so much for me; just thinkif, 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 yousee?--because it would be hurting her. SHE wants me to be the realJamie. I know she does. Now if I could only DO something for her--makeher proud of me in some way! If I could only do something to supportmyself, even, like a man! But what can I do, with--these?" He spokebitterly, and laid his hand on the crutches at his side.
Pollyanna was shocked and distressed. It was the first time she hadheard Jamie speak of his infirmity since the old boyhood days.Frantically she cast about in her mind for just the right thing tosay; but before she had even thought of anything, Jamie's face hadundergone 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 gotthe crutches. They're a whole lot nicer than the wheel chair!"
"And the Jolly Book--do you keep it now?" asked Pollyanna, in a voicethat 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 thesame little old notebook that Jerry gave me."
"Jerry! And I've been meaning all the time to ask for him," criedPollyanna. "Where is he?"
"In Boston; and his vocabulary is just as picturesque as ever, only hehas to tone it down at times. Jerry's still in the newspaperbusiness--but he's GETTING the news, not selling it. Reporting, youknow. I HAVE been able to help him and mumsey. And don't you suppose Iwas glad? Mumsey's in a sanatorium for her rheumatism."
"And is she better?"
"Very much. She's coming out pretty soon, and going to housekeepingwith Jerry. Jerry's been making up some of his lost schooling duringthese past few years. He's let me help him--but only as a loan. He'sbeen 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 youcan't pay. I know how it is. That's why I so wish I could help AuntPolly 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?" shechallenged, 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 summerboarders 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 stoppedand 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 somethingwinters. 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! Lotsof folks do that. I knew two girls in Germany who did."
"Did you ever try it?" Jamie still spoke a little queerly.
"N-no; no
t yet," admitted Pollyanna. Then, defensively, in answer tothe expression on his face, she bridled: "I TOLD you I was keepingsummer 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 instrumentthat you have to learn how to play."
"I think it is--a little--like that." Jamie's voice was low. His eyeswere turned away.
"How? What do you mean? Why, Jamie, just a pencil and paper, so--thatisn'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 heartof the world; and to me that seems the most wonderful instrument ofall--to learn. Under your touch, if you are skilful, it will respondwith smiles or tears, as you will."
"'The instrument that you play on, Pollyanna, will bethe 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 thoughtof 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. ILOVE to tell stories. I'm always repeating those you tell, and Ialways 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 acurious 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, whydon't you? You could do it lovely, I know!"
There was no answer. Jamie, apparently, did not hear; perhaps becausehe called, at that instant, to a chipmunk that was scurrying throughthe bushes near by.
It was not always with Jamie, nor yet with Mrs. Carew and Sadie Deanthat Pollyanna had delightful walks and talks, however; very often itwas 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 tocamp. He rowed and swam and fished and tramped with fully as muchenthusiasm as did Jimmy himself, and with almost as much vigor. Aroundthe camp fire at night he quite rivaled Jamie with his story-tellingof adventures, both laughable and thrilling, that had befallen him inhis foreign travels.
"In the 'Desert of Sarah,' Nancy used to call it," laughed Pollyannaone night, as she joined the rest in begging for a story.
Better than all this, however, in Pollyanna's opinion, were the timeswhen John Pendleton, with her alone, talked of her mother as he usedto know her and love her, in the days long gone. That he did so talkwith her was a joy to Pollyanna, but a great surprise, too; for, neverin the past, had John Pendleton talked so freely of the girl whom hehad so loved--hopelessly. Perhaps John Pendleton himself felt some ofthe 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 verylike your mother, my dear."
"Why, I thought my mother was BEAUTIFUL!" cried Pollyanna, inunconcealed 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'dsay. You little witch!--you poor, homely little Pollyanna!"
Pollyanna flashed a genuinely distressed reproof straight into theman's merry eyes.
"Please, Mr. Pendleton, don't look like that, and don't teaseme--about THAT. I'd so LOVE to be beautiful--though of course itsounds 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 tohim, 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 thetalks with Jimmy, to Pollyanna. For that matter, she and Jimmy did notneed to TALK to be happy. Jimmy was always so comfortable, andcomforting; whether they talked or not did not matter. Jimmy alwaysunderstood. There was no pulling on her heart-strings for sympathy,with Jimmy--Jimmy was delightfully big, and strong, and happy. Jimmywas not sorrowing for a long-lost nephew, nor pining for the loss of aboyhood sweetheart. Jimmy did not have to swing himself painfullyabout on a pair of crutches--all of which was so hard to see, andknow, and think of. With Jimmy one could be just glad, and happy, andfree. Jimmy was such a dear! He always rested one so--did Jimmy!