Amorelle (3 page)

“Oh, I couldn’t give up the books,” she said with decision. “I wouldn’t part with them for anything.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?” demanded the woman calmly. “That’s foolish, Amorelle. What could you do with a lot of books, carting them over the country? Your uncle certainly wouldn’t want to pay cartage for them, and you haven’t any way to pay storage.”

“I haven’t made my plans yet, Mrs. Brisbane,” said Amorelle with reserve. “There will be a way for everything.”

“Well, of course you haven’t had much time to plan with your father scarcely cold in his grave yet,” assented the woman calmly, “but that’s why I came in this morning to say we are willing and glad to help. I don’t suppose you’ve got any money, have you?”

The color swept up into the girl’s pale cheeks and over her white forehead into her hair. Her sweet dignity was astonishing.

“I think—I’ll manage—Mrs. Brisbane! We haven’t any debts, at least.”

“Well, that’s one good thing; your father always was honest, if he wasn’t very provident. It does seem as if out of his salary, with only you to keep, he might have put by a tidy sum. I’ve known ministers with less than he had to have managed a good, big life insurance, or bonds or something. But then your father never had his mind much on the things of this world, and I suppose in a way that’s a credit to him, but somehow it doesn’t help out in paying bills. How about the undertaker? Are you figuring to pay him or were you expecting the church to pay that?”

“Certainly I shall pay it!” said Amorelle. She felt cold and numb now to her fingertips.

“Well, that’s good if you can do that. Of course the church expects to do something. I don’t know just what. I heard the men talking at prayer meeting the other night. They might give you a month’s salary if there aren’t too many bills left to be paid. That’s what the people did for the widow of Reverend Salisbury over at Greenwich last winter. One month’s salary clear! But then, you know your father was sick a good two months, and they had to get fill-in preachers as well as pay him. You’ve got to think of that, you know.”

“I’m not expecting anything from the church, Mrs. Brisbane. I would much rather they didn’t do anything for me. I’ll be all right.”

“Oh well, they’ll do something. I don’t know what it’ll be. But it’ll be something nice, of course. Our church always does the right thing, and they really thought an awful lot of your father. Of course if they decide to buy your things, why that’ll count some. It’s the Ladies’ Aid really that’s thinking of them.”

“Mrs. Brisbane, I wish you would ask them not to worry about me.” Amorelle was trying to speak pleasantly, almost cheerily. “There really isn’t any need for anybody to worry about me. I shall soon have my plans made now and get my things out of the manse.”

“Well, yes, of course you wouldn’t want to hold up the work of getting ready the place for the next minister,” admitted Mrs. Brisbane, rising with a deprecatory look around. “The paint looks pretty well worn off the doors and window sills, doesn’t it? Wasn’t that just painted last season? Seems as if it ought to have lasted longer than that, doesn’t it? What kind of soap do you use?”

Amorelle’s desperation was suddenly relieved by the sharp ring of the manse doorbell.

“Mercy! Who’s that?” said Mrs. Brisbane, whirling around to peer out from behind the faded, old chenille curtain, through the glass at the side of the front door. “Oh, it’s Mrs. Spicer. She’s got something in a covered dish. It’s likely one of her Spanish omelettes. She thinks everybody appreciates them as much as she does. For my part I think an omelette ought to be eaten piping hot off the skillet and not steam in a dish all the way across the road. Well, Amorelle, I’ll just slip out through the kitchen door. I really haven’t time to stop and talk. Mrs. Spicer is so long winded. I’ll just slip those biscuits onto another plate as I go through and save you the trouble of bringing back the plate and napkin. Good-bye, child! I’ll be over to help you bright and early tomorrow. Don’t you worry about one thing. I’m going to have you right on my mind all the time!”

Mrs. Brisbane timed her sentence exactly to make the last syllable audible in the hall before the front door opened and she vanished into the dining room, where she slid her biscuits upon a china plate from the corner cupboard, gave an appraising glance around at the immaculate room, and hurried on through, missing not one thing in the kitchen as she unbolted the back door.

Mrs. Spicer was a thin, little old lady with water-faded eyes, crumpled parchment skin, and the palsy. She wore a small perennial shoulder shawl of Scotch plaid, and there was a pitiful shake to her head as she spoke. She held in her shaking hands a covered silver dish, and there was a gentle whine in her voice.

“Oh, good morning, Amorelle”—she quivered—“You poor little lonely thing. I’ve just been having you on my heart all night!” Her voice quavered into a sob, and the tears rained down wetly as she managed a feeble little arm around the girl’s reluctant neck and drew her into a damp embrace.

Amorelle wondered, as she struggled against the overpowering gloom, why it displeased her so to have this dear, little old lady weep. It was wicked of her, of course, to resent other people crying for her.

“It’s very dear of you to think of me,” she said, trying to speak cheerily. “Won’t you come in and sit down?”

The old lady tottered gently in and sank into the upholstered chair by the door, almost upsetting the steaming dish she carried.

Amorelle rescued the dish.

“Shall I set this down for you?’ she asked pleasantly.

“Why, yes, if you will. It’s just some of my Spanish omelette. Most folks like it, and I thought it would be tasty for your breakfast. That is if I’m not too late? You haven’t eaten your breakfast yet, have you?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Spicer, I slept late this morning. That’s very kind of you to think of me.”

“Well, I’ve just been bearing you on my heart all night,” said the good woman, letting loose the tears again. “I expect you didn’t sleep a mite all night. I expect you just cried your heart out!”

“No, Mrs. Spicer,” said Amorelle quietly. “I didn’t cry much. Of course I’m going to miss my father desperately, but we talked about his going to heaven. He didn’t want me to grieve. He wanted me to think of the time when we shall all be together again. By and by. He wanted me to be brave and trust God and live out whatever God had for me to do. Of course it’s terribly hard, but I’m glad for him, joyously glad. You know he suffered greatly those last few months.”

Amorelle brushed away a bright tear and tried to smile into the watery old eyes, and the old lady stared at her in wonder.

“Well, it’s very wonderful if you can feel that way,” she murmured, “but weak human flesh falters. Death is such a final thing! And you and your father were always so close. I know you must feel it intensely.”

She got out a black-bordered handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

“One doesn’t get over those things! I always say death is so final, so inevitable. I grieve as much today over my sainted husband as I did the day he died, and that’s nearly twenty years ago.”

“Yes, it’s very hard to face,” said Amorelle with a quiver of her lip, “but I promised Father I wouldn’t give up to grief and I’m going to try to keep my promise. You know, when you realize that the Lord Jesus has conquered death, there is no more terror in it. The parting is hard, but we who believe do not have to sorrow as others who have no hope. We’ll all be at home together someday. Mrs. Spicer, there are sometimes things harder to face than death.”

The old lady stared uncomprehendingly at her.

“Yes, I suppose it is so,” she assented with a sniff. “But I have always felt keenly the fact that I didn’t have a home of my own. It was through no fault of Mr. Spicer’s, either. It was all through the machinations of a man who borrowed money from him under false pretenses. A man who lives right here in this village. He was a mere boy when it happened, but he was a slick one. He’s old now, but he’s still slick. His name is Pike. I’m sure I hope others will be saved from his grasp. And you, Amorelle, poor child, you haven’t any home either, have you? Oh, if I had a home of my own I’d invite you right home to live with me as long as you would stay. But you know it’s not the same when you’re living in your son-in-law’s house. You don’t feel free. But, poor child, what will you do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Amorelle reservedly. “My uncle has invited me to come to him. I haven’t got my bearings yet, but I’ll know soon, and I’ll let you know my plans before I go away anyway. I certainly do appreciate your kind thought of me. Now, would you like me to empty this pretty dish right away? You may need if for the next meal.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Spicer, rising reluctantly. “Nobody knows I brought that silver dish. They might miss it.”

Amorelle slipped the sinking omelette into another dish and hurried back to her caller, who was standing in the hall now, looking back into the study where the door stood open.

“And that was your father’s study!” said Mrs. Spicer with a sob in her voice. “Oh, I can see him sitting there in his big chair at the desk now. Such a holy man he was!”

“Yes,” said the tortured daughter with an attempt at a smile. “But it’s beautiful to think of him in heaven now with his Lord. That’s the way he wanted me to think about him.”

She held her head high and winked back the tears that wanted to come, steadily holding her lips from trembling.

“Well, if you can feel that way I suppose it’s a good thing!” sighed the widow, wiping her eyes. “But somehow poor, weak human nature must grieve!” And she wiped another torrent of tears away.

When Mrs. Spicer had gone, Amorelle locked the door and pulled down the little shade that guarded the glass from curious visitors. Then she walked quickly back to her father’s empty study, her hands clenched at her sides, her head thrown back, her eyelids pressing back the hot tears that kept crowding for admission.

“Oh!” she said aloud in an agonized voice. “How am I going to stand it? There will be so many of them! How can I bear it? Even the nice ones we have loved will be so hard,
so hard
to bear! Oh!”

But in a moment more she opened her eyes, shaking off the tears, and looked around. Her father’s bookcase with his beloved books stood just before her. And they wanted her to part with them! A look of fierce resolve came into her face. Perhaps before the day was over they would be down upon her, suggesting what she should do with her beloved, shabby old possessions! And if she had not some definite plan, they would overrule her. She was sure of it! Those kind, benevolent, dear, nosey people would insist on running her affairs. Just because she was so young they would think it was their business to engineer every move she made. She thought of Mrs. Brisbane’s suggestions with a shudder. No, she must lose no time in getting a plan and acting upon it.

She cast another wild look around her at her father’s beautiful desk—the gift of a beloved old friend—his chair, his books, and then she whirled around and ran upstairs.

There was just one person in the whole parish of whom she was willing to ask advice, and that was Miss Lavinia Landon. She would go to her quickly before anyone could hinder.

M
iss Landon was one of the humblest of the parishioners. She was a maiden lady who had lived in a little shingled cottage behind tall lilac trees that had been growing for many years till they almost hid the modest dwelling from the street. She did plain sewing, and some that wasn’t so plain, and now and then some fine embroidery, and nobody thought much about her except when they wanted some work done. She lived over in Glenellen, a good mile and a half from Rivington where the church and manse were located, but all her life she had been faithful in attendance at church whenever the weather made it possible for her to get there. She was wisehearted and loyal, and Amorelle’s mother had been very fond of her.

Amorelle did not stop to dress up. She put on her hat and hurried out the kitchen door, not even giving a glance to the tasty breakfast that had been brought to her. She had no desire for food. She locked the back door and went out through the little alley behind the garden. She did not want to meet any more kind parishioners yet. She felt that she could not endure any more condolences from anybody until she had talked with Miss Lavinia. She would understand.

She hurried along the alleyway for two blocks to avoid her neighbors. If she met any, they would be sure to ask where she was going so early in the morning.

Her feet sped rapidly across the street and took the river road to Glenellen. It was not a hard walk and was pleasant all the way, but this morning Amorelle’s heart was very heavy, and when she raised her eyes to notice the scenery, which she usually loved, it was only to wonder that all things could be so lovely when her dear father was gone from her. It seemed to her a cataclysmic occurrence that ought to affect all nature.

Her heart was beating fast as she hurried along the road. She was trying to put into words just what her heart was feeling, trying to formulate her errand, yet what she was really going for was a smile of understanding. She felt like a little girl rushing to a friendly, loving lap to hide her face and cry therein.

So she was almost breathless from her hasty pace when at last she reached the picket fence and swung the gate open on its big chain. The old weight dangled just as it used to dangle and clank when she was a little girl and used to swing on the gate and eat a rosy apple while her mother talked with Miss Landon.

But the door swung wide before she had time to knock, for the frail, little old lady who sat sewing in the window behind the old lilac bushes had seen her coming down the road and was ready for her with loving arms to gather her in.

“My dear,” she said, holding the girl off for a loving smile and then pushing her gently into a waiting rocker. “I’ve been thinking of you. I’m glad you have come.”

Then suddenly Amorelle, who had gone like a soldier through all the hard hours since her father had died, who had borne the grilling services in the church and at the grave with a sweet calm that astounded the whole parish and had met all condolences without giving way, put her face in her hands and began to weep till her whole frail young body shook with her sobs.

“That’s right, dear,” said Miss Landon, lifting off the girl’s hat and smoothing back her brown hair. “Just you cry it out, child. I’ll get you a sip and a bite when you’re done, for I doubt you’ve had any breakfast.”

Softly she slipped away and let Amorelle cry, and presently she brought a dainty tray. A glass of water with a tinkle of ice; a fragrant cup of coffee; thin, delicate slices of toasted muffins; a fragment of the breast of a chicken.

She set the tray down and lifted the girl’s chin in her hand and gently passed a clean, cool, comforting wet washcloth over her face.

“Now, little girl, you’ll feel better,” she said tenderly. “See if you can’t eat a bite and drink a sip of coffee. It will give you strength to talk.”

So Amorelle, with an apologetic smile, thanked her and tasted the coffee.

“I guess this was what I needed,” she said sorrowfully. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to cry!”

“Dear heart! Cry all you want to. Just come here whenever you want to cry and I’ll quite understand.”

So gradually Amorelle grew calm, ate the tempting breakfast, and little by little Miss Landon drew from her all that was in her heart to say. Before long she had told about her two visitors that morning.

“Job’s comforters!” smiled the old seamstress. “Well, dearie, don’t take them too seriously. But it must have got on your nerves to have it hammered right into you that way. But Mrs. Brisbane at least
thinks
she is kind hearted. You mustn’t mind her. Now, dearie, how can I help you? What is it that’s troubling you most?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Amorelle catching her breath. “I guess I just needed your heartening smile. It’s good to look into your eyes and know you aren’t going to try to marry me off to anybody in town nor insist on buying my most precious things.”

They laughed together a minute and then the old lady said, “Well, now, let’s see just what you ought to do. Had you decided anything, or do you just want me to let you alone and not bother you?”

“Oh no, you couldn’t bother me!” said the girl, trying to smile. “I’ve got to have some advice. That’s what I came for. I knew your advice would be right. You see, I suppose I’ve got to go to my uncle’s, at least for a time. Father said some time ago that when he was gone he hoped Uncle Enoch would invite me to come there, and he has, at least briefly by telegram. I suppose there will be a letter. I’m not specially anxious to go, but I guess I ought to for a while anyway. It would have pleased Father. But I never thought at all about my furniture and Father’s dear books. I couldn’t part with the books. We’ve read so many of them together—” she said with quivering lip, “and yet I couldn’t exactly land on relatives with a lot of furniture and books.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” said Miss Landon briskly, “and you wouldn’t want to take even the books there until you were sure you were going to stay. It might make needless expense. I’ll tell you what to do. Why don’t you just bring them here and put them in my kitchen chamber? It’s a great big, dry, empty room that is never used, and you could store things there as many years as you wanted to and it wouldn’t cost you a cent. Then, if you finally decide to marry any of the Brisbane suggestions or anybody else, or if you should want to come back to Glenellen and set up housekeeping sometime, why, it would be an easy matter to move your things.”

“Oh, but Miss Landon, I couldn’t let you do that for me, not without paying a little something at least,” said the girl. “I’m sure I could pay just a little. Perhaps I can get something to do somewhere to earn something. And I’m going to sell some of the things, of course. Perhaps I’ll just let the Ladies’ Aid have what they want.”

“No, you won’t,” said the old lady decidedly. “You just sell them on your own hook, anything you don’t want to keep. Tubs and the gas stove and a lot of junk that’s always cluttering around any house. You’d get a little something from them. If I were you, I’d stop at Abe Neatherby’s second-hand place on your way back and ask him to come up and look at what you don’t want to keep. Then you’ll have yourself in hand. The Ladies’ Aid is all well enough, only I know who runs things like that—Mrs. Brisbane and Mrs. Ferguson. And they would skin the eye teeth off an angel. The rest of the women are lambs, but they wouldn’t interfere in a matter of that sort, for Mrs. Ferguson has always run the financial part of the Ladies’ Aid, and always will as long as she lives. I’d just love to see you get the better of her.”

Amorelle smiled sadly.

“Well, I don’t want to be mean,” she said gently, “but I do hate to have those two women talking over Mother and Father’s things.”

“Of course!” said Miss Landon brightly. “Well, now you just run home and begin to pack up. Have somebody in to help you move trunks and boxes. I’d come myself and help you only I’ve promised these curtains by tomorrow noon, and it’s going to keep me hustling.”

“Oh, I don’t need help,” said Amorelle. “You’ve helped me wonderfully already. I didn’t know how to keep any of my things without storing them, and I knew that was awfully expensive. But I can’t consent to let you do this for me unless you’ll get some benefit out of it yourself. Couldn’t you use a few of Mother’s chairs and her sofa perhaps, or some of the tables and beds? I’d feel so happy to think of some of them being in use.”

“Why, yes of course,” said Miss Landon looking around. “I’d be pleased as punch to have that lovely sofa and chairs in my front room. I’ve never been able to replace some of the furniture I had to sell when Mother was sick, and the front room has nothing but a pine table and three cane-seat chairs. You can put your parlor things in there, and Sundays I’ll enjoy them, sit on first one and then another and think of you. And sometimes when I have a very high-class customer, I’ll take them in there just to show I know what’s what in the way of a parlor.”

Amorelle laughed in spite of the tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes, and then went and threw her arms around the little old lady and kissed her.

“You’re so dear,” she said.

“So are you,” returned Miss Landon, winking back the tears that came into her own eyes. “I wish you were my niece. I’d like to have you come and live with me. If I only could get back some of the money I had in that bank that closed its doors I’d have you here in no time, uncle or no uncle.”

“Oh, you dear Aunt Lavinia! I couldn’t do that, of course, but I love you for suggesting it. But aren’t you ever going to get any of your money back at all?”

“Well, I don’t know. I might and then again I mightn’t, but I just can’t count on it. But, child, you must remember this: if things don’t go well with you, you’re always welcome to come to me, and we’ll make out somehow. I just love you like my own.”

Amorelle came away comforted at last, with a happy little feeling that there
was
a haven for her if everything else should fail. It was good to know there was a refuge, even if she knew she never would let herself seek it unless she had money enough to be a help and not a hindrance to this hard-working woman.

But as Amorelle went in the back gate and unlocked the kitchen door of the manse, she heard the front door bell ringing violently, and she wondered if some of her tormentors had already arrived.

In trepidation Amorelle hurried through to the front door and opened it to find Johnny Brewster standing there, red and embarrassed, his big hands revolving his straw hat nervously, his red curls newly wet and slicked back, a spruce dark blue coat buttoned over the old brown sweater he usually wore on weekdays. His grocery truck was parked halfway down the street on the other side.

Ordinarily Amorelle was very good friends with Johnny. He had been an eager member of the Christian Endeavor under her leadership, a willing helper at all Sunday school picnics, church socials, and the like, and an ardent lover of her father. She had always had a pleasant word and a smile for him, and he had always seemed to admire her respectfully from afar, never by word or look presuming to offer her personal attention. But now, as he stood there fumbling his hat and looking at her out of oddly frightened eyes, their relationship seemed somehow to have changed. With a horrible memory of Mrs. Brisbane and her ill-timed suggestions, the girl began to quake with strange premonition.

“I—You—” began Johnny awkwardly. “That is, may I come in a minute? Are you very busy, Miss Amorelle?”

He had always called her Miss Amorelle. It had been the outward sign of his recognition of the difference between them in class and education.

“Oh, why come right in, Johnny!” she said, trying to make her voice sound bright and natural. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Ordinarily Johnny would have breezed in respectfully and remained standing while he told his errand. This time, however, he strode into the parlor and sat down on the edge of the first chair that presented itself, twiddling his hat wildly as if the motion of it would help him keep his equilibrium.

Amorelle looked at him with trouble in her eyes and dropped weakly in the big chair opposite him, trying to disarm her fears. Probably he had only come to offer her sympathy and didn’t know what to say, poor lad. Oh, was everybody in the parish going to come? How could she stand such long-drawn-out, sorrowful kindness?

Johnny’s good, honest face flushed painfully as he lifted anguished eyes to her gaze and plunged wildly in.

“I wanted ta come and tell ya how sorry I am fer ya, Miss Amorelle!” he began. “I sure did love your father. He sure was a great preacher!”

Amorelle drew a breath of relief and smiled.

“Oh, thank you, Johnny. I do appreciate your sympathy,” she said. “And Father was always very fond of you. He was proud of the splendid Christian stand you took among your friends.”

The young man flushed with pleasure, and then he looked wildly around the room as if clutching for another sentence to help him through and began again.

“That was why,” he said earnestly, “that was why I wanted ta come—at least I dared ta come—that is I come ta offer ya my sympathy—that is my—help. That is, anything I cud do fer ya.”

“Oh, you are very kind, Johnny,” said Amorelle, looking at him with puzzled eyes.

“No, it ain’t kindness!” he blurted out embarrassedly. “I’ve always thought an awful lot of ya. That is, I’ve always thought ya were wonderful. But I never dreamed—that is, I never wouldda presumed—and I don’t know as you’d consider it now, Miss Amorelle, an’ ef ya wouldn’t it’s all right with me. That is, I mean no offense. I know I’m not in any way fit fer ya, only I’d like ta take care of ya ef you’d let me. And somehow I thought ef you wouldn’t mind we ud get married, an’ then I cud see ya didn’t have things so hard. I got a real good business going now, an’ I cud afford ta hire help an’ you wouldn’t havta work. And I’d take real good care of ya an’ see ya had things just as ya wanted ’em, as far as I was able, an’ ya wouldn’t need ta have anything more ta do with me than ya wanted. I’d try not ta stick around too much, ya know. But I’d be powerful proud of ya—I know I’m not in your class—”

He lifted miserable, shamed eyes to her white face now, as if to implore her not to think too ill of him, and suddenly she bowed her head in her cold hands and began to laugh and cry together, her whole body trembling and shaking with her mirthful sobs.