Amorelle

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “There will be plums in the backyard, child, if you feel that way about it. If you want to take the trouble, it may smooth her feelings. It’s just as well to keep people happy, even those that do not understand.”

  “You dear thing,” said Amorelle, stooping to kiss the soft old lips. “You are the youngest old lady I ever met. Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll make the jam.”

  So Amorelle went up and wrote to her aunt.

  Dear Aunt Clara:

  I’m sorry to go against your wishes, and I’m sorry to have you think I’m not maidenly and am disgracing you, but I think George understands. I feel in my heart that I would not be doing right to marry him. I am only sorry I did not understand myself sooner. But it was not until we began to hunt for a house that I began to realize that it was not a happy thing to me to think about going away with George, and then I knew something was wrong. That was why I wanted to accept the invitation and come off here to think about it. I’m sorry to have you all feel this way about me; but I think you will see later that I was right. Don’t fret about my being an old maid. I shall be very happy. And I shall not expect you and Uncle Enoch to do anything for me. The bank is paying me a nice little salary, and I can lay up something every month for a rainy day. Besides all that, this dear old friend of mother’s is giving me her little house and a small income to keep it going when she is gone, so I am all planned for, you see. Thank you again for all you and Uncle Enoch did for me. I’ll try not to disgrace you again.

  I’m sorry about the bias bands. If I had known about them I would have stayed another day and put them on. But we have plums here in the yard, great luscious ones, and I’m going to make two dozen jars of preserves when they are ripe and send them by express to you, so you won’t miss them.

  Now, if there are any other ruffles or bias bands or things you would like me to sew for you, just bundle them up with directions and send them on by parcel post. I’d love to do them evenings, and there is a good little sewing machine here. It won’t be any trouble.

  Lovingly,

  Amorelle

  She brought the letter to Miss Landon, and the old lady’s eyes lighted as she read.

  “I should say that was ‘good measure, running over,’” commented the old lady as she handed it back. “Amorelle Dean, you’re going to be just like your father. Now, run away to the post office, and forget this and be happy.”

  Two days later Uncle Enoch arrived. Meantime, nothing more had as yet been heard from George.

  Chapter 18

  Uncle Enoch had taken a surreptitious detour on his way from a New York business trip and was cross at the delays on way trains. He was stiff and sore from being up half the night, changing at little way stations, and terribly upset because he had gone some extra miles. But he took Amorelle in his arms and kissed her as if she were very dear to him.

  Then he sat down, took off his glasses, wiped them carefully, put them on, and looked around at the neat, little shingled house with approval.

  “Nice little place you’ve got here, Amorelle. Reminds me of my old home when I was a boy. We had a chain like that on the gate. Ever swing on it? I got strapped many a time for doing it. Nice vine over the porch. Honeysuckle? H’mmm! My mother used to love ’em. What’s that? A hummingbird? You don’t say! That’s exciting! My! I’d like to be a boy again and stay a week. Isn’t that a trout brook down there in that meadow? Looks like it. Say! This is great!”

  Uncle Enoch stayed all day and caught the midnight train home, telling Aunt Clara he was delayed by business. But he had a great day. He sat by Miss Landon’s couch, learning wisdom and doing her honor. He ate chicken pot pie and applesauce cooked by the excited Bonny, and Amorelle got the day off from the bank and went with him down to the river fishing.

  They sat a long time without speaking, the shimmering sunlight playing around them, no sound but the gentle ripple of the water.

  Suddenly Uncle Enoch cleared his throat.

  “I’ve missed you, Amorelle,” he said hesitatingly. “I’ve missed you a lot.”

  He sounded so like a shy boy trying to express his feelings without betraying undue emotion that a sympathetic warmth came around Amorelle’s heart. Sensing that he wanted to say more, she remained silent.

  “You helped me,” he went on. “I’ve thought a lot about those talks you used to give me about your Bible lessons.”

  He cleared his throat once more, evidently trying to get the courage to go on.

  “I hunted up my Bible and read over some of those verses you talked about. They made me see—I guess—I’m not—what I ought to be.”

  His voice grew husky. “I know I’m not—I’m a great sinner! I used to think I had a tough time of things, and I was pretty good because I didn’t break loose and go into—well, into the sins that most men commit,” he broke off. “It’s strange for me to be talking to you this way, but I thought you might sort of help. You seem to have what your father had. I used to watch you there at home, and you made me see there was something to all that your father used to talk about. But I haven’t got it. I’m not right with God. I know I’m an awful sinner. Not because of what I’ve done. I’ve never done what the world would call great sin, but because of what I’ve not done. Why, I’ve never paid any attention to God!”

  His voice almost broke with his intense earnestness.

  Amorelle was more stirred by her uncle’s confession than ever before in her life. But she felt so helpless in herself as she realized that the moment had come for which she and her father had prayed for years. Oh, heavenly Father, her heart cried, I alone can’t help this soul. Put Thy words into my mouth.

  When her uncle had ceased speaking, there came the words from the Book, and she repeated them softly, “‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ ‘The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.’ We’re all sinners, Uncle Enoch, and there is no hope for anybody till he finds out that he is a sinner. Then all there is to do is to believe what God says, that He put all our sin on His own Son and gave us His life, His righteousness. ‘All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.’ Believe that, Uncle Enoch, and you are saved.”

  There was a long, long silence while the sunbeams danced across the stream, and the bees hummed drowsily in the clover blooms of the meadow on the other side. At last Uncle Enoch spoke again.

  “I do,” he said confidently, earnestly.

  It was an afternoon long to be remembered, and Amorelle’s heart was happy over the thought that her father’s prayers through the years had been answered at last. Uncle Enoch would meet him in heaven, redeemed by the precious blood of the Lord Jesus.

  When Glenellen’s old jitney finally came for Uncle Enoch at eleven-fifteen to convey him to the midnight train, he bade them all good-bye with a tremble in his voice and a promise to come again someday. He hadn’t had such a good time since he was a boy, he said. He took Amorelle into his arms again and kissed her tenderly, telling her twice that he should miss her very much. And then he gruffly whispered that she had done him a lot of good. She was just like her father.

  There were tears in his eyes as he left her. Amorelle was deeply touched.

  The very next morning there was a letter in the post office from George.

  Amorelle!

  I’ve bought a white enamel sink. It’s a dandy—has two compartments, so you can use it for washing and rinsing dishes, and a sort of turntable faucet. It’s worth seventy-five dollars new, they tell me, but I got it secondhand for twenty-eight fifty. It has just a little chip on the under edge, but you’d never notice it. I’m going to have it put in the house this week.

  Now come home at once, and no more nonsense! We won’t say any more about it. I haven’t any more time to waste on such trivial things. See you Friday night. So long.

  George

  When Amorelle read this, she broke down laughing.

&n
bsp; “Why didn’t I see all this in him before?” she asked, suddenly sobering. “I’ve been going with George for months, and I never realized before. Of course he never gave me much of anything except the ring, which he bought for an investment, he said. And now I think of it, he was always telling me the price of things, but I thought it was just because he was thrifty! I didn’t realize he was all for money. Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

  “You were under a glamour of youth, dear child. You put virtues upon him from your own ideal, and you hadn’t probably seen him in circumstances to show his true character. Lots of girls marry on the strength of loving their own ideal and putting it on a man wholesale. When he takes it off in his own home, they break their hearts and think that marriage is a failure, when the truth is they were in too much of a hurry and tried to fit their ideal to the first man that came along.”

  “Well, I wish I’d had you to open my eyes, Aunt Lavinia. I’m afraid George is going to be rather a bother to get rid of.”

  There was not quite her usual sweetness in the letter she penned at once.

  Dear George:

  It isn’t a matter of sinks at all. If I really loved you, I wouldn’t care what kind of a sink we had to have. Can’t you see that?

  I’m sorry you bought the sink, but you can probably sell it and make a little something on it. Or perhaps you’ll keep it and use it yourself. I’m sure you’ll find some nice girl, George, who is your real companion in life. I know I never could be.

  Sincerely,

  Amorelle

  The reply to this was prompt and brief.

  Amorelle:

  I certainly am disappointed in your character. I didn’t know you had it in you to be so persistently bullheaded and selfish about a house. But you won’t make anything this way, I can tell you. I’m tired of this babyishness. You be home Monday night when I come, or I’m done. This is your last call, and I mean it. There are plenty of other girls in the world.

  George

  When Amorelle read this, she set her lips in a fine, firm line and burned the letter in the fireplace. She did not answer it.

  The days shone on, each one like a shining crystal stone with many facets, each brighter than the day before, and the hummingbird flashed through the sunshine humming happily. Amorelle’s heart was at rest. She liked her work; she loved Miss Landon and was happier than she had been since she was a child.

  Monday flew by and all that week, then came a letter from Aunt Clara at the seashore.

  Dear Niece:

  I am sending you some pieces of organdie I want hem-stitched. You will see where the first thread is drawn an inch or two. I want them all like that, and please get them back as soon as possible. I want them for my lavender gingham. The organdie ruffles all went to pieces in the wash.

  George was at the house Monday night before we left. He seemed very much upset. He wanted your uncle to force you to come home. He said you weren’t of age yet in this state and your uncle was your legal guardian, and he ought to force you to come home and behave yourself. Your uncle wasn’t at home that night, and I don’t know what he means to do about it. I told George I heartily agreed with him that you had lost your head and were acting very babyish, but of course, as I wasn’t a real relative at all, I couldn’t do anything. I think, if you want my advice, that the best thing you can do is to go quietly back in a week or two and just open up the house and begin to clean. You’ll be tired of your notions by that time, and it will give George a little time to cool down. He’ll come around all right. I suppose from what he told me he’s been acting a little high-handed about a house, but he’ll get over it. You have to manage men, you know.

  Get these ruffles back by Thursday if you can. I need them.

  Now think over my advice, and get back home next week. The key is at Varney’s store.

  Your affectionate aunt,

  Clara

  Amorelle hemmed the ruffles and sent them Wednesday morning; but she did not write again. What was there to say?

  One morning, the most crystal-clear Saturday of the whole summer, a big, shining blue car drew up at Miss Landon’s door, and a young man stepped out and looked around him, took in with quick, appreciative eye the hidings of the lilacs, the moss etching of the roof, the honeysuckle drapery, and the dart of the golden-winged hummingbird. Then, with a light in his eye, he walked confidently up the path and knocked at the door. This was the place all right. He couldn’t be mistaken. There was even the old gate chain where she used to swing.

  He was there at noon when Amorelle came from the bank for her half holiday, sitting beside Miss Landon’s couch, quite at home. They were apparently well acquainted.

  Amorelle paused in the doorway, the sunlit halo around her head, and saw her dream come true. Her heart stood still and then gave a great leap. But after a second of surprise, she told it to be still and went forward quite naturally to meet him, though she could not quite keep the ring of delight out of her voice.

  “Mr. Garrison! How did you come to be here?”

  He rose and took her hand eagerly, looking down at her as if his eyes had been hungry for a sight of her, a rare smile on his lips.

  “I—just came! Do you mind?” he said.

  Then both of them laughed, for both remembered when he had said exactly the same thing before. Then they both remembered that he was still holding her hand, and they looked embarrassed and hurried to find chairs, he putting her carefully into the big stuffed rocker he had been occupying, while Miss Landon feasted loving eyes upon the two.

  “Why, I—came to see Glenellen—your Glenellen. Will you show it to me?” he said.

  Oh joy! Of course she would! What rare miracle brought a happiness like this to her? Oh Father in heaven, I thank You, her heart breathed, and then warned itself in the same breath not to presume too much on just a day’s joy. Not to jump too far ahead and make herself think a day’s joy was any more than—a day’s joy. Of course not!

  Bonny in the kitchen, listening, flew to work. Chicken! There was by some miracle a cold breast of chicken. What delectable sandwiches the fine, white, homemade bread made. Remark-able coincidence that there should have been breast of chicken. But the chicken was not for lunch.

  There had been a delicious, creamy potato soup brewing for lunch before the guest had arrived, and raspberries from the bush in the backyard, red and yellow and black, with rich Jersey cream and velvety gingerbread as accessories. Bonny put a head of lettuce into the spring to cool while she sliced a few tomatoes and whisked together an omelet as an afterthought, and the lunch was ready.

  “Now,” she said, appearing at the dining room door, “lunch is ready, and if you two are going to the glen, I’ve got your supper all put up for you. There’s apple turnovers just out of the oven. It’s a hungry walk to the glen.”

  Two pairs of eyes met and smiled joyously. Amorelle wondered. Had such a thing really come into her life at last? Going off on a picnic with a friend just like other girls!

  They left the big blue car parked among the lilacs and climbed the back fence to the way across the meadows, down by the trout brook, following it back to its source up through the beautiful glen.

  If all the songs that were ever sung of fern-fringed, mossy glens and all the poems that were ever written to describe the cool, green depths where the water tinkles along over bright stones with strange, wandering sunbeams unexpectedly tangled in the midst of the feathery-fronded walls high overhead, had been combined into one exquisite bit of writing, it could not quite have come up to the song that sang itself in the hearts of those two that afternoon as they trailed down through the meadow, over the brook, and entered the dim hall of the glen.

  Perhaps Glenellen is not so widely known as some other glens; perhaps its height and depth might not measure up to the size they put in the geographical part of the dictionary, but it is certain there is no more lovelier spot to be found anywhere than there.

  As they entered the cool shadow of its green, roc
ky walls, the breath of the summer day beat softly on their cheeks as if the sun were bidding them adieu, and the cool breath of ferns struck sharp across their senses. A great silence reigned, as if all else kept still to hear the music of the little water as it tinkled over the stones in the midst, drenching the forget-me-nots and watercress and echoing up, far up, to blue sky fringed with ferns.

  An awe came upon them as the silence made itself felt, and their voices hushed. Instinctively the man reached out his hand and took the hand of the girl. It might have been to detain her and prolong the first lovely glimpse or again to keep her from slipping, who shall say? And so they entered into the glen together.

  “Isn’t there something wonderful, almost holy, about it?” spoke Garrison at last in a low voice. “It seems a sacrilege to talk of ordinary things.”

  “Yes,” said Amorelle in a hushed voice, her eyes filled with the dreamy look she so often wore. “I always feel when I first enter as if it was the outer court of God’s house and I must wait until He comes and tells me I may go on.” She spoke the words shyly, half frightened when she heard them herself. She was not used to speaking out her thoughts to other humans.

  The young man looked down into her eyes with something good and beautiful within his own.

  “How lovely!” he said gravely and after a pause. “So this was what you were thinking of that day when you saw the opening where the brook led away to the woods. That was what you were used to. No wonder you had that longing look in your eyes.”

  “Oh!” said Amorelle. “I hadn’t been used to this for a long time. And this is the first time since I came back that I’ve been here. One doesn’t go alone to the glen. There hasn’t been anybody to go with—”

  “And I have the first honor?” He gave her a look that set her heart in a tumult, and then suddenly he drew her down on a rock.