Amorelle

by Grace Livingston Hill

  There was a dry finality in her aunt’s tone that brought a helpless lump to Amorelle’s throat.

  “I have enough money,” she said in a quiet voice. “I thought it would really be cheaper for you if I was gone during the summer. You wouldn’t have to keep the house open.”

  Her voice was choking but she tried to control the tremble in it.

  “Nonsense!” said Uncle Enoch suddenly in a thunderous voice, throwing down his paper so violently that it made the coffee cup rattle. “As if my niece couldn’t take a little trip to visit her friends if she wants to! Of course you can go, Amorelle. Your aunt can hire help to do anything she needs. I’m sure it isn’t any consideration of money.”

  “Amorelle, the iceman is at the back door. Will you just step out and tell him I want to pay the bill? You will find my pocketbook on my bureau, and the bill is lying on top of my desk. Attend to it, please, before he goes.”

  Aunt Clara was that way. She always could switch things off at the right moment, and somehow the milkman or the iceman or somebody always happened along for a nice excuse when Uncle Enoch undertook to smooth anything out for Amorelle.

  The girl hastened from the room to obey her aunt’s behest with a heavy heart. As she came down the back stairs again, she heard Louise going down the front stairs, late, as usual, to her breakfast. Now she would be in the argument, too, and there would be a regular storm. She would know how to floor her father utterly, and there would be no way for Amorelle to go unless she actually ran away. Had she the nerve for that? Did she really want to make a break of that kind between herself and her relatives?

  She paused in the butler’s pantry a moment to dry the tears that had sprung unbidden to her eyes, and the excited voices of her aunt and uncle came to her ears.

  “It’s no way to treat a young girl, Clara,” from her uncle; and then Louise’s petulant voice breaking in, “I’m sure I don’t see why you make such a fuss about it, Clara. Why not let her go? I’d be glad to get her out of the way just now while that Russell Garrison is staying on. He’s to be here two weeks. He made a fool of himself over her yesterday, taking it into his head that he must look after her just like all the rest of the girls. And we’ll have to have her tagging everywhere with us if she is here, or he will think it odd. He’s that way, one of those old-fashioned funny kinds of men that thinks a girl has to be kept in pink cotton. But he’s nice, and he has loads of money, they say, and he drives a peach of a car. Mother, let her go. I’m bored to death, always having her around in the way.”

  Amorelle beat a hasty retreat up the back stairs to her room, stung to the heart. It was not more than was to have been expected of the pretty, heartless cousin, perhaps. But somehow coming this morning on top of all her other perplexities, it hurt immeasureably. She locked her door and flung herself on her bed, weeping. She felt as if she never could go downstairs and face life among them again. She had not eaten a mouthful of breakfast, but what was breakfast in such a situation?

  Presently she rose and bathed her eyes. She was not a girl given to weeping. She had not the opportunity if she had so desired, and self-control had been bred in her from childhood. Somehow she felt now that the die had been cast. She must go away. And if she were going, she wanted very much to go at once. She went about quietly picking up her possessions, folding her few dresses, taking things out of her bureau drawer, and packing them swiftly in the trunk that had been kept in her room always. She would not take with her any of the cast-off finery. It did not take long to pack. She worked as if the need of great haste was upon her and she must get this done before anyone stopped her. She found her breath coming in short, dry sobs as she stooped over the shabby trunk and stowed away her belongings.

  Before this was finished, she heard her aunt’s heavy, labored tread upon the stairs and her short, asthmatic breathing as she neared the top.

  Amorelle closed the trunk noiselessly, gave a quick glance around the room, with one movement swept out of sight into the closet any objects that might show her recent occupation, and waited.

  Her aunt tried the door and, finding it locked, knocked and called querulously, “Amorelle! Amorelle! What in the world have you got your door locked for in broad daylight?”

  Amorelle stepped to the door quietly and opened it.

  Her aunt stood panting from her climb with the petulant querulousness still upon her lips and brow.

  “Amorelle, your uncle thinks you ought to go on this trip if you are so set upon it—” She paused for breath. “And Louise is awfully sweet about it. She says she’ll take over your work so you can go. She is a dear child. She wants you to have a little pleasure.”

  Amorelle swallowed hard and turned away, trying to put down the hurt and indignation.

  “Thank you, Aunt Clara,” she managed to say steadily.

  “Yes,” said the aunt, “she’s taken the trouble to call up and find out about trains. There’s one at half past eleven this morning, but I don’t suppose you could possibly get ready by that time. Louise says if you can, she’ll take you in the car to the station.”

  There was an eagerness about her tone that Amorelle could not help feeling, although she was relieved that she was to have no trouble about being allowed to go.

  “Yes, Aunt Clara, if it won’t inconvenience you, I think I can get ready. But Louise need not bother about the car. I’ll walk down early, for I have one or two errands on the way. I’ll just go down now and phone for the expressman to come for my trunk.”

  “Oh, are you going to take a trunk? You’ll be back before long, won’t you? I did think I’d have you make some of that plum conserve while we were away, the kind we liked so much last year, you know, with the nut meats and the lemon peel—”

  But Amorelle had hurried down the stairs and did not seem to have heard. When she returned, her aunt was in Louise’s room, and Amorelle could not help hearing what they said.

  “Then she’s going at once? What luck! She’ll be out of the way entirely when Mr. Garrison comes. That’s a great relief. I didn’t know how I was to get rid of her. He’s so strange about such things. Do I have to take her in the car?”

  “No, she says she wants to walk.”

  “So much the better. Then I can have all my time to dress. Mother, do you think the blue gingham with white organdie is the prettiest, or shall I wear the lavender Swiss?”

  Amorelle hurried up the stairs like a wraith, smiling bitterly. It was one thing to be able to go on her journey peaceably but quite another to be almost hustled out of the only home she had in the world.

  Fortunately she was too busy for the next half hour to entertain such thoughts, and it was with a reasonably placid countenance that she came downstairs and paused at her aunt’s door to say good-bye. She would have liked to go without further words with her cousin, but something fine in her would not let her act the coward. To her great relief, the expressman came just as she tapped on Louise’s door, making prolonged leave-taking impossible, so she called a pleasant good-bye and hurried away to look after her trunk.

  Her aunt came to the top of the stairs as she was leaving and called after her, “Better come back soon and get at your sewing. Then you’ll have time to make that conserve before the plums are gone.”

  But Amorelle managed to smile and get downstairs without committing herself.

  Outside the door, she found her uncle unexpectedly sitting behind the vines on the porch, looking a bit nervous and flustered.

  “Oh, is that you, Amorelle? Going now, are you? Well, take this, child, and have a good time. You deserve it. And if you need any more, just write to me—at the office, you know. Good-bye.” And he hurried into the house without giving her opportunity to say more than “thank you.” As she tucked the money away in her little handbag, she discovered that there were ten crisp ten-dollar notes in the roll, and a warm glow came round the chilly place in her heart. The kindness in her uncle’s voice meant far more to her than money. It would help her greatly to forget L
ouise’s heartless words.

  She had written a hasty note to George to let him know she had been called away to Glenellen to see a sick friend of her mother’s and promising to write him later. She hurried first to the post office to mail this.

  Then she had a book to return to the library, some knitting needles to take to an old lady who had loaned them to her, and she wanted to get a minute to say good-bye to the lame seamstress who sometimes did embroidery for her aunt and to give a picture book to the little invalid girl who lived in the same building with the seamstress.

  She was breathless when at last she was seated in the train, barely in time to secure a seat before it started. But when the wheels began to move, it suddenly came over her that she was free. A great wonder came upon her that it had all been accomplished so easily after all. She remembered her prayer of the night before and marveled. Was this the answer?

  Chapter 16

  It was a long ride because the train she had taken was a way train and went only to the junction, where she had to wait four hours for the evening express and take a sleeper, but Amorelle was glad she had started at once. If she had waited, George might have turned up and made objections.

  Her mind was filled with pleasant thoughts. It was as if she had just acquired a beautiful book filled with delightful experiences and charming pictures, and this was her first leisure to examine it.

  It was not until late in the afternoon that she fully realized that she had spent the day between enjoying the views she passed and reviewing the day before. Constantly there came to her mind interesting phrases, glimpses of Russell Garrison’s views of life, incidents and quotations that had enriched the few hours she had spent in his company. She looked upon the experience as an uplifting one for which to be thankful. He was not in any sense her friend, though he had had been most friendly. Of course he had not understood that she did not belong to his sphere, for he was wealthy and traveled and belonged to a fine old family high in social realms, she understood. But he had been wonderful to her, and it was nice to know how it felt to be treated that way. Of course she would never see him again, and it was just as well that she should not. She grudged him not to whoever should be his future companion on the way of life, but if one saw too much of a man like that, it might be hard not to like him too much.

  That was the way she explained it to herself when her conscience suddenly rose and asked her how George would like to have her thinking so much about what another man had said.

  It had not occurred to her to let Garrison know that she was engaged. She wondered if she should have done so. She had not worn her ring because of George’s constant warnings about it. He would have said it was a great risk to wear a diamond to the woods. Somehow the ring didn’t seem to be really hers, anyhow. It was George’s investment, and her hand merely displayed it.

  As Glenellen drew nearer, she found she had a better understanding of her own feelings toward George Horton than ever before. She resolved to write him a frank letter just as soon as she arrived and get the matter entirely off her mind. She could not be at peace until her unfortunate engagement was at an end. She had talked with her Lord about it, and He had shown her. Oh, if she had only realized sooner what riches she had in Christ. Wisdom and knowledge! It was wonderful!

  As Amorelle walked down the quiet street from the Glenellen station, she was remembering old scenes and precious happenings. Here was where she had fallen off her bicycle, and her father had picked her up and carried her home and her mother had bound up her bruises and comforted her. Oh, to have a father and mother to bind up and comfort now. Here was the same old tree encroaching upon the sidewalk, where she used to play hide-and-seek with her playmates when they took a walk to Glenellen. There was the spire of her father’s church off in the distance with the ivy climbing thickly over it. Up there was the way home to the manse that wasn’t home anymore.

  They had called a young married man in her father’s place, although he hadn’t accepted the call yet. She wondered, in case he came, if she could bring herself to go to church and hear him preach in her father’s pulpit without weeping.

  She walked down the length of the street under the maples, their thick foliage yellow-green in the sunlight, past the clustering houses of people she remembered as if she were opening an old photograph album, until she came to the little cottage with moss etching its shingles in velvet-green lines behind tall lilac bushes. It was only one winter, yet it seemed so long since she went away.

  The old gate sagged but still bore its chain and weight. She swung it back with a loving touch and hurried into the house.

  The little white-haired woman lying like a frail flower on the old calico-covered couch did not look much like the alert Aunt Lavinia that Amorelle had left, but the same loving eyes and voice were there, and Amorelle flew into her arms.

  “I just had a feeling something nice was going to happen,” said Miss Landon joyously. “I made Henrietta put on this wrapper and let me up awhile. Amorelle, little girl, stand back and let me look at you. You’ve got tired eyes, but you’re just the same. I knew you would be. Your mother’s sweet, patient mouth. Your father’s true eyes and wonderful smile. They haven’t spoiled you yet.”

  Henrietta came breathlessly from a neighbor’s where she had been for fresh eggs. Bonny! Dear old Bonny!

  Bonny took her to a little white room. There was an old four-poster bed with homespun linen sheets, a blue-and-white homespun spread, and a long mirror over a chest of quaint drawers. Her father and mother smiled at her from two frames on the wall. A handful of blush roses in a gray-and-blue jar on the windowsill filled the air with fragrance. A thrush sang somewhere overhead, and a big blue and orange and black butterfly hovered over the bowl of roses. It was all wonderful. She took off her hat, washed her face in the funny little thick, white washbowl, and wiped it on the soft towel that smelled of geranium leaves. She smoothed her hair and rested her tired eyes with a long look out of the window into the thick green of the lilacs.

  Downstairs there was the smell of fried chicken and strawberries. It all seemed so sweet and homey, it took her right back to her childhood and made it seem almost possible that if she should go down the street to Rivington, she might find her dear father in the parsonage again.

  After the evening meal she sat beside Miss Landon and talked while Henrietta Bonsall whisked the dishes away and went down to the post office on an errand.

  “Now, Amorelle,” said the old lady, “before we begin I want you to know the truth. I’ve got hardening of the arteries, and I’m not likely to live long. It’s been going on for sometime back, and the doctor says I’m almost to the end. You needn’t look sad, because I’m perfectly satisfied. I’ve lived my time, and it’s often been a lonely way. I’m glad to go home to my Savior. My Lord is calling me home. I’ve had a yearning for many a year to go where all of my family and most of my friends are, so it’ll be a happy ending. But I took a longing to see you before I go and tell you all about my affairs, and I’m glad you’ve come.”

  “Oh, and I’m glad I’ve come, too, Aunt Lavinia,” breathed Amorelle, struggling with quick tears.

  “There now, put away your tears and listen,” said the old lady, smiling. “I’m feeling fairly well tonight, but it may not last till tomorrow, and I’ve a lot to say before Bonny gets back. Bonny’s the salt of the earth, but I don’t tell my affairs to anyone in this town unless I am willing the whole town should know them. So listen, and don’t feel bad.”

  Amorelle smiled and grasped the withered old hand that felt like a crumpled rose leaf.

  “You don’t remember, of course, but your father and mother were wonderful to me when I was in great trouble once, and your father fixed my money affairs up so I had enough to keep me all my days. And now that I’m going away, I’ve nobody in the world to leave it to but you, child. You see, it rightly belongs to you, because if your father hadn’t saved it for me, I wouldn’t have had it to leave. I would have been in the poorhouse al
l these years, through a rascally man who had charge of my property.”

  “But, Aunt Lavinia—” broke in Amorelle with wonder in her voice.

  “No, wait, child, I’m not quite through. You needn’t feel it’s anything great. It’s only this old house, free from mortgage, and a bit of money well invested, thanks to your father. But after the funeral expenses are paid and a bit to Bonny for looking after me, there’ll be enough to keep up the house and take care of you if you are ever in need. In case you have no need of the house, you can easily rent it or sell if you choose, though I’d like to feel I was leaving a place for you to come to if ever things went against you as they went against me.”

  Suddenly Amorelle’s head went down on the couch beside her old friend, and the tears had their way. She had been able to bear the loneliness, the disappointment, the desolation of the years, in quietness and patience, but this sudden care for her overwhelmed her overwrought young soul.

  Miss Landon laid her hand on the smooth brown head and let her cry for a minute; then she said gently, “There now, child, cheer up, and tell me all about you! I’m just hungry to know everything. Begin at the beginning and tell me just as you would your mother, won’t you dear?”

  “Oh, Aunt Lavinia,” burst out the girl, “why didn’t I under-stand? Why didn’t I write oftener to you? It would have been so wonderful to have someone who cared like this. There wasn’t anyone in the whole wide world—”

  “Child,” said Aunt Lavinia, clasping her hand earnestly and peering at the young face in the twilight, “you don’t mean nobody cared. Oh, you must be mistaken. Nobody could look at your dear, sweet face and not care.”

  “Oh, they cared—a little—but not really cared, you know. Aunt Clara was cold and hard; Louise was selfish. Only Uncle Enoch was really kind. He gave me some money when I came away, a hundred dollars, and seemed very much interested in my having a good time. And then of course George—I thought he cared, but I’m beginning to feel almost as if it was only because I was going to belong to him that he cared, not just because it was I more than any other girl.”