Amorelle

by Grace Livingston Hill

  But Amorelle was already on her feet, springing up the slippery way, suddenly aware of Louise and the immediate future.

  “Oh—yes—indeed!” she called back breathlessly.

  “Oh, look here, partner! That’s no way to treat me,” called the young man, and with three strides he was beside her again, catching her hand and helping her upward.

  Laughing and happy, they hurried forward; only now Amorelle was thoroughly awake to everything that was going on. This young man was a perfect gentleman, more courteous than George had ever been, seeming to anticipate her every need—touching her hand, lifting her whenever it was necessary—yet always with that impersonal, matter-of-course manner as a brother might have done, and it made her feel honored, somehow set apart in the world of women as something precious to be cared for, as assistance from George had never done. Why was it? What was the matter? It was something to be tucked away in her mind and thought out afterward. Of course it might be a mere glamour of a stranger’s unexpected attention; but there seemed to be something deeper in it than that, as if a picture had been shown to her of what life at its best should be, that she might know what a mistake she was making.

  Of course this young man was not in her life, nor ever would be. He would go on his way come evening and likely never cross her path even distantly again, but his character, his personality as a representative of a Christian gentleman, would never go from her; and she felt instinctively that there was before her a great crisis in her life. She had a big question to decide. Did she want to be missing this sort of thing always? Was George enough to her to make up for what a man like this one, a good comrade who understood, could be? It was not likely that another man such as this would come near her life again, but would it perhaps not be better to walk her way alone than to throw her life in with one who could not understand her innermost thoughts? She recalled some of her father’s advice: “It is infinitely better to walk your way alone through the world than be tied to one who can never be your mate.”

  These thoughts were only faintly shadowed in a flicker of foreboding as she climbed breathlessly back to the road, supported pleasantly and helpfully over every rock and turn of the path and kept from falling over the tangled grass or being torn by a casual briar that reached wanton hands for her garments.

  They emerged from the woods, and with a throb of regret she saw a large blue car parked on the bridge. The beautiful interlude was finished. But she realized gratefully that thoughtfulness had arranged that the men at the roadside tavern should not come again into their plans.

  The chauffeur, it appeared, knew exactly where Ross Mountain and Giant Rocks were and gave minute directions. They took him to the nearest trolley line and went on their way. Amorelle, sitting beside Garrison in the front seat and beginning to see Louise’s face just as it would be when they arrived, longed to borrow the carfare and go home with the chauffeur; only she knew that would be cowardly. But all the beautiful way, as they wound among the hills and while she was listening to his merry talk, her mind was busy in an undercurrent, setting itself in order for what was to come. There would be Louise, and there would probably be George to deal with afterward. Louise would see to that. And what a fool she had been to come at all! She was being well punished. If George knew he would surely be satisfied.

  “My friend, you are troubled,” said Russell Garrison, suddenly looking down at her with a glance almost tender, as if she were a worried child.

  She flashed him a look of gratitude and tried to smile.

  “I am beginning to realize how all this has spoiled Louise’s day,” she said.

  “Please don’t think of that. I don’t believe it has been spoiled; and if it has, we will try to make that last part of it so pleasant that she will forget that there were any hitches in the morning. Come, brighten up, little girl. I’ve had a beautiful morning, and I hope you’ve not had a dismal time.”

  “Oh, I—” breathed Amorelle with a starry look, and then stopped, unable to say what she had in her heart. “But—you have helped me so much. More than I can ever tell you,” she finished.

  “I somehow think this was all intended, don’t you? I can’t help feeling we were meant to be friends, and this is only the beginning,” said Garrison, giving her another of those searching glances. “I mean to take you someday to another glen I know and see if you don’t think it is almost as beautiful as your Glenellen. Will you go? Promise me you’ll go. When shall it be?”

  “Oh, but I—but you mustn’t —” she began in trepidation.

  Then suddenly they swept around a curve and came full upon the picnic party established behind a big rock, with an amazing view of valley and mountain spread out before them and the mangled remains of a feast at their feet.

  Russell Garrison stopped his car quite suddenly with a surprised exclamation not at all so joyously spoken as might have been expected from a returned wanderer.

  Louise arose stiffly, haughtily, from her place on the other side of the picnic blanket and gave her cousin an imperious look.

  But Garrison was quick to read a situation. Indeed, he had read it already in anticipation. He sprang out with an assumed joyousness and proceeded to absorb the attention of the whole company for the moment, giving Amorelle the opportunity to slip gratefully into the background. He went straight to Louise, made a graceful apology, and somehow succeeded in putting the whole situation right. To her amazement Amorelle perceived that they were all ashamed of having left her alone and unprotected. She threw aside her hat and went quietly to work picking up dirty napkins and rescuing plates of sandwiches from an army of ants that was threatening them, and while she worked, one and another of the company came slipping up to her quietly and almost apologetically, with a really friendly attitude. She glanced at her cousin, and instead of the scorn which had met her when she arrived, Louise was looking over with a smile.

  When her work drew her nearer to where they were, Louise said condescendingly, “I certainly am glad you kept the box with you, Amorelle. Poor Mr. Garrison would have starved if you hadn’t had it. Say, Amorelle, I reversed the order of things and left the chops till evening so you could cook them. You’ll find them in the little icebox. And the coffee is in the smallest basket. Make it good and strong. Now hurry and get this place cleared up. We are going to have the games after a bit, and I’ll leave the supper in your hands. Thank goodness you’re here! Now come on, Mr. Garrison, I’ve got the loveliest little nook to show you.”

  Garrison glanced back to his companion of the morning with amused indignation. Was this then what she had to bear? He half hesitated, as if about to stop and help her, but something in the attitude of her slim shoulders and the set of her shining brown head made him understand that she did not wish it. He followed Louise reluctantly, silently, down the path, without even offering to help her in the slippery places.

  But Louise was gifted with a voluble tongue and covered the silence admirably. But he reflected that he could do Amorelle only harm by his absorption, so he roused himself to be entertaining and succeeded so well that Louise kept him talking long after the time agreed upon for the games.

  When they returned to the rest of the company, a good fire was burning away down in a hollow, and Amorelle, on her knees before it, turned the chops, her delicate face etched clearly against the firelight in the early evening as she bent earnestly to her work, apparently unaware of the presence of others. He wished he might go and help her, wished he might have gathered the sticks for that fire. Who made that fire for her, anyway? He frowned. Or did she make it herself? He frowned again and turned deliberately away. He knew it would please her better so, but it went hard with him.

  It was late in the evening when they were gathering up their belongings to go home, for because of his late arrival the day had been prolonged beyond the time first set. Louise, as usual, was dominating the company, ordering where everybody should ride.

  In the dusky shade of a big rock, Garrison came upon Amorelle packi
ng cups in a hamper.

  “You’re to go in my car,” he said in an undertone that the others could not hear.

  “Oh, please no!” said Amorelle in almost a whisper. “I thank you, but I wish you would let it go just as it happens. It really will be better so.”

  “Well, if you wish it; but remember, I’m coming to get you. You can’t go back on our day, you know. How will tomorrow do?”

  “Oh, it will be impossible!” said Amorelle in alarm. She had had time for reflection and the dream of the morning was fading in the reality of the present. “Please, I want to thank you for the beautiful time—”

  “Mr. Garrison!” called Louise sharply. “I’m going to let Harry Sackett drive my car, and I’m going to ride with you. Come quick now, and let me show you the moon from the point of the rock before we go. It’s perfectly wonderful!”

  Garrison turned wistfully to look at Amorelle, but she had disappeared into the shadows and was absorbed in setting fire to the rubbish she had gathered. Perhaps it was a good thing that Louise could not see her companion’s face as he followed her over the slippery trail. Louise had gotten her way, and Garrison let her have it for Amorelle’s sake, but he inwardly resolved that the like should never happen again.

  One glimpse of Amorelle he caught as he and Louise were returning. Amorelle was standing alone on a point of rock that jutted over the valley, her face lifted to the silver moon, her delicate profile clear-cut, like a cameo against the darkness of the night. Then she was called and stowed away in the backseat of the Sackett-driven car by order of Louise, and he had to listen to Louise’s chatter as he drove down the mountain in the silver moonlight, wondering what Amorelle would have said about the night with its silver mists, piny-blue shadows, and that winding ribbon of a stream laid gleaming in the velvet blackness of the valley. He thought he could see her eyes glow as they watched it all, and he laid away every scene to talk it over with her someday. She was some girl! What was the matter with them all that they did not see it? And how could he manage to get a word with her when they reached the house without letting that foolish Louise see?

  But Amorelle disappeared as soon as they got home and did not reappear, though he lingered after all the rest, much to the joy of pretty, flattered Louise. He heard Louise’s mother call Amorelle, and Amorelle’s voice answer from upstairs—“Yes, Aunt Clara, they’re all put away. Yes, I counted them. Nothing was missing”—and then a door upstairs closed gently, and he knew that Amorelle did not intend to come downstairs again that night.

  He was wondering as he drove home just how he should manage seeing her again. Should he telephone or write a note, or just call and ask for her? For he meant to see her somehow very soon. He liked her. She was a real girl. Then he happened to remember her handkerchief that he had taken to carry after she had wiped her hands at the brook. It was rolled up in a little wet wad in his pocket. That was it. He could return it. That would be an excuse without calling attention to her. Of course he must manage it just right or Louise would spoil his play, but he would manage somehow.

  Chapter 15

  Amorelle, lying wide awake in her bed in her hot, little third- story room under the eaves, was wondering how she was going to avoid Russell Garrison, and thinking what a little fool she had been to step so easily into a day’s paradise and expect to come back to earth and live again. For suddenly she saw with that clear, revealing vision that comes to us sometimes in a swift flash in the watches of the night that she could never, never go back and be content in that little red-brick house and wash dishes day after day, even for only two years, at that awful black-iron sink under that high little blank window, zall alone. Not for George Horton! And if she wasn’t willing to do that for him, she didn’t love him enough to marry him, did she? No! She didn’t! It was appalling, but she didn’t. It was her only chance, probably, all her life to have a home of her own, a hope of little children to love, and a right to order her own life, but it wasn’t possible. She didn’t love George, and she mustn’t marry him.

  That was probably the reason, too, why she had shuddered when he took her in his arms so roughly. That was why she shrank from his touch. There had been something so possessive about him. And if she had loved him, really loved him, she would have wanted to be possessed. She would have loved it.

  The astounding truths broke upon her excited senses one by one and left her almost exhausted as they poured out their clear assertions of the future. There would be a scene with George. Not right away, for he would be offended and would stay away to punish her, but by and by when it really came over him that she meant to break with him. He would be outraged and would say she had deceived him. But she couldn’t help that. Then he would tell her she didn’t understand herself and that she would get over this. Well, perhaps she didn’t understand herself. Perhaps she was just excited now. She would wait. She would be gentle. She would be willing to be shown, but she was sure, now, in the depths of her heart.

  Then there would be the scene with her aunt and the questions from her uncle. How clearly she could foresee them all! How was it she seemed to know just what they would say, as if she had gone through it once before? Oh, if she could just go away somewhere and think it out sanely, quietly, and then write back to George! How blessed that would be. She would escape the scorn of aunt and cousin, get away from the prying, all the exclamation, and just be herself. Her father used to tell her that was the way to settle big questions, to get away from things that might bias and try to take a look at the subject as God looked at it. If she only could! She had but one little life to live, and it had been lonely enough already. She didn’t want to make any mistakes.

  But where could she go?

  “There isn’t anywhere in the world,” she said aloud sadly to the four sloping walls of her hot, little room. And then, dropping back to her pillow, she whispered into its depths, “Oh, God, You have shown me the truth; now please show me what to do! Please make it plain and unmistakable so I shall not be in doubt. Open a way for me out of this situation. I want to do whatever You have planned for my life. And I know You have already made provision for my every need. Now I am just going to count on that and trust You.” With the lightest heart she had had in months, Amorelle fell sound asleep.

  A letter lay beside Amorelle’s plate the next morning when she hurried down a trifle late to breakfast, having overslept after her midnight vigil. It bore the postmark of Glenellen and brought a flush to her face and a quick throb to her heart, though she did not recognize the cramped writing.

  Her aunt had come down early that morning, and she and Uncle Enoch were busy with their mail, so Amorelle opened her letter and read it.

  Dear Miss Dean:

  Yoo wont remember me but I’m taken the libertie of writin to you to say thet I just cum from Miss Landons house where I ben nursing her. She is bettur now but keeps wishin she cud see yoo. I thot yoo wud lik to kno. Mebbe yoo cud cum visit her. I done all I cud fer her. She hasn’t enny of her own yoo kno. Hopin yoo can cum.

  Yoors respectfully,

  Henrietta Bonsall

  P.S. We found Lem Pike tryin to git in the kitchum chamber winder where yoor furnitoor is. He clum up to the winder and got his head an sholders inside. The winder ketch give way ad the pollise got him.

  Amorelle did remember Henrietta Bonsall. She was the old nurse that always went to everybody in Glenellen when there was sickness. They called her “Bonny,” and everybody loved her. Bonny had cared for Amorelle’s mother in her last sickness. Though it had been long years ago, and she only a little girl then, Amorelle remembered it well. And now Miss Landon was sick and needed her. Her resolve was taken at once.

  She stole a furtive glance at Aunt Clara’s smug face.

  “The Robertses have asked Louise for the weekend,” remarked Aunt Clara complacently. “That’s nice. Louise will like that.”

  This was as good a time to speak as any. Amorelle caught her breath and spoke.

  “Aunt Clara, I’d like
to go back to Genellen for a while. I’ve had a letter from an old friend of Mother’s. She’s sick and wants me. I’d like to go this morning, if you don’t mind. The canning and cleaning are all done, and you are going away yourself pretty soon. I don’t suppose you’ll need me.”

  Aunt Clara’s face hardened.

  “I certainly don’t see what call you have to go all the way to Glenellen to nurse some old hanger-on in your father’s church,” said Aunt Clara crisply, “and I certainly do need you here. There are Louise’s things to do up for her weekend, and I want you to make those ruffles for the organdie dresses. You know, the dressmaker left that work for you. Besides, we need you to help pack up when we go to the shore. And who will stay in the house and look after things, I’d like to know? You just write her it’s out of the question. You can’t have people from Glenellen pestering the life out of you forever.”

  “But Aunt Clara,” began Amorelle earnestly, “she isn’t a hanger-on. She was Mother’s dear friend. And I’ve always meant go back and visit her sometime. I’d like to go if you can arrange it. I made those ruffles last week, the two evenings you were away, and put them on the dresses. They are all ready to wear, and I’ll gladly do up Louise’s things this morning. Then I could take the afternoon train. Ida told me she was going to stay in town this summer, and I thought perhaps you could arrange with her to look after the house.”

  “It doesn’t suit me at all,” snapped Aunt Clara in one of her cold tones of anger that always reminded one of Louise. “I have a great many things I need you for. Besides, how are you to get your clothes ready for your marriage if you don’t stay here and sew? You can have your time and the sewing machine and nothing to bother you. And what will George say? You, an engaged girl! Have you asked George if he is willing you should go? There is another thing you seem to have forgotten, too. Where will you get the money to go a long journey like that? It’s a long way to Glenellen. I guess you hadn’t thought of that.”