she was exasperated, the only reason she could give would be “Because Pollyanna is so glad” – and even Mrs. Carew would hardly like to give an answer like that.
To Della, however, Mrs. Carew did write that the word “glad” had got on her nerves, and that sometimes she wished she might never hear it again. She still admitted that Pollyanna had not preached – that she had not even once tried to make her play the game. What the child did do, however, was invariably to take Mrs. Carew’s “gladness” as a matter of course, which, to one who HAD no gladness, was most provoking.
It was during the second week of Pollyanna’s stay that Mrs. Carew’s annoyance overflowed into irritable remonstrance. The immediate cause thereof was Pollyanna’s glowing conclusion to a story about one of her Ladies’ Aiders.
“She was playing the game, Mrs. Carew. But maybe you don’t know what the game is. I’ll tell you. It’s a lovely game.”
But Mrs. Carew held up her hand.
“Never mind, Pollyanna,” she demurred. “I know all about the game. My sister told me, and – and I must say that I – I should not care for it[24].”
“Why, of course not, Mrs. Carew!” exclaimed Pollyanna in quick apology. “I didn’t mean the game for you. You couldn’t play it, of course.”
“I COULDN’t play it!” ejaculated Mrs. Carew, who, though she WOULD not play this silly game, was in no mood to be told that she COULD not.
“Why, no, don’t you see?” laughed Pollyanna, gleefully. “The game is to find something in everything to be glad about; and you couldn’t even begin to hunt, for there isn’t anything about you but what you COULD be glad about. There wouldn’t BE any game to it for you! Don’t you see?”
Mrs. Carew flushed angrily. In her annoyance she said more than perhaps she meant to say.
“Well, no, Pollyanna, I can’t say that I do,” she differed coldly. “As it happens, you see, I can find nothing whatever to be – glad for.”
For a moment Pollyanna stared blankly. Then she fell back in amazement.
“Why, MRS. CAREW!” she breathed.
“Well, what is there – for me?” challenged the woman, forgetting all about, for the moment, that she was never going to allow Pollyanna to “preach.”
“Why, there’s – there’s everything,” murmured Pollyanna, still with that dazed unbelief. “There – there’s this beautiful house.”
“It’s just a place to eat and sleep – and I don’t want to eat and sleep.”
“But there are all these perfectly lovely things,” faltered Pollyanna.
“I’m tired of them.”
“And your automobile that will take you anywhere.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere.” Pollyanna quite gasped aloud.
“But think of the people and things you could see, Mrs. Carew.”
“They would not interest me, Pollyanna.”
Once again Pollyanna stared in amazement. The troubled frown on her face deepened.
“But, Mrs. Carew, I don’t see,” she urged. “Always, before, there have been BAD things for folks to play the game on, and the badder they are the more fun ’tis to get them out – find the things to be glad for, I mean. But where there AREN’t any bad things, I shouldn’t know how to play the game myself.”
There was no answer for a time. Mrs. Carew sat with her eyes out the window. Gradually the angry rebellion on her face changed to a look of hopeless sadness. Very slowly then she turned and said:
“Pollyanna, I had thought I wouldn’t tell you this; but I’ve decided that I will. I’m going to tell you why nothing that I have can make me – glad.” And she began the story of Jamie, the little four-year-old boy who, eight long years before, had stepped as into another world, leaving the door fast shut between.
“And you’ve never seen him since – anywhere?” faltered Pollyanna, with tear-wet eyes, when the story was done.
“Never.”
“But we’ll find him, Mrs. Carew – I’m sure we’ll find him.”
Mrs. Carew shook her head sadly.
“But I can’t. I’ve looked everywhere, even in foreign lands.”
“But he must be somewhere.”
“He may be – dead, Pollyanna.”
Pollyanna gave a quick cry.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Carew. Please don’t say that! Let’s imagine he’s alive. We CAN do that, and that’ll help; and when we get him IMAGINED alive we can just as well imagine we’re going to find him. And that’ll help a whole lot more.”
“But I’m afraid he’s – dead, Pollyanna,” choked Mrs. Carew.
“You don’t know it for sure, do you?” besought the little girl, anxiously.
“N-no.”
“Well, then, you’re just imagining it,” maintained Pollyanna, in triumph. “And if you can imagine him dead, you can just as well imagine him alive, and it’ll be a whole lot nicer while you’re doing it. Don’t you see? And some day, I’m just sure you’ll find him. Why, Mrs. Carew, you CAN play the game now! You can play it on Jamie. You can be glad every day, for every day brings you just one day nearer to the time when you’re going to find him. See?”
But Mrs. Carew did not “see.” She rose drearily to her feet and said:
“No, no, child! You don’t understand – you don’t understand. Now run away, please, and read, or do anything you like. My head aches. I’m going to lie down.”
And Pollyanna, with a troubled, sober face, slowly left the room.
Chapter V
Pollyanna Takes a Walk
It was on the second Saturday afternoon that Pollyanna took her memorable walk. Heretofore Pollyanna had not walked out alone, except to go to and from school. That she would ever attempt to explore Boston streets by herself, never occurred to Mrs. Carew, hence she naturally had never forbidden it. In Beldingsville, however, Pollyanna had found – especially at the first – her chief diversion in strolling about the rambling old village streets in search of new friends and new adventures.
On this particular Saturday afternoon Mrs. Carew had said, as she often did say: “There, there, child, run away; please do. Go where you like and do what you like, only don’t, please, ask me any more questions to-day!”
Until now, left to herself, Pollyanna had always found plenty to interest her within the four walls of the house; for, if inanimate things failed, there were yet Mary, Jennie, Bridget, and Perkins. To-day, however, Mary had a headache, Jennie was trimming a new hat[25], Bridget was making apple pies, and Perkins
I should not care for it – (
was trimming a new hat – (
