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Eleanor Porter / Элинор Портер

Pollyanna Grows Up / Поллианна вырастает. Книга для чтения на английском языке

To My Cousin Walter

© КАРО, 2016

Chapter I

Della Speaks Her Mind

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. ”

“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.

“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 sha’n’t be long. I stepped in for – this,” she finished, giving the owner of the “dear-me-what-now” voice a hearty kiss.

Mrs. Carew frowned and drew back a little coldly. The slight touch of joy and animation that had come into her face fled, leaving only a dispirited fretfulness that was plainly very much at home there.

“Oh, of course! I might have known,” she said. “You never stay – here. ”

“Here!” Della Wetherby laughed merrily, and threw up her hands; then, abruptly, her voice and manner changed.

She regarded her sister with grave, tender eyes. “Ruth, dear, I couldn’t – I just couldn’t live in this house. You know I couldn’t,” she finished gently.

Mrs. Carew stirred irritably.

“I’m sure I don’t see why not,” she fenced.

Della Wetherby shook her head.

“Yes, you do, dear. You know I’m entirely out of sympathy with it all: the gloom, the lack of aim, the insistence on misery and bitterness. ”

“But I AM miserable and bitter. ”

“You ought not to be. ”

“Why not? What have I to make me otherwise?”

Della Wetherby gave an impatient gesture.

“Ruth, look here,” she challenged. “You’re thirty-three years old. You have good health – or would have, if you treated yourself properly – and you certainly have an abundance of time and a superabundance of money. Surely anybody would say you ought to find SOMETHING to do this glorious morning besides sitting moped up in this tomb-like house with instructions to the maid that you’ll see no one. ”