Crisp bacon sandwiches and ginger ale was the menu she finally offered to the hilarious crowd, with tiny little sweet gherkin pickles. It wasn’t perhaps the latest combination, but the cupboard was strangely bare of other things—only a teaspoonful of cocoa left in the box, not a drop of milk, either canned or otherwise, in the house.
Amorelle set George Horton to getting out the ice cubes for the glasses and opening the ginger-ale bottles while she warmed the butter, crisped the bacon, and spread thin slices the long way of the loaf, folding them together and cutting them into small sandwiches. The new combination was hailed with delight, and a shout went up, which must have made Uncle Enoch and the neighbors groan and wonder when these benighted young creatures would go home and let them sleep.
Amid much clamor of calling good-nights, of tooting of second-hand or borrowed paternal horns, much screaming of tires, the party got themselves away.
It was nearly two o’clock when Amorelle, having cleaned up the kitchen and washed the plates and glasses, crept silently up to her bed. And thus ended her first night in her uncle’s household.
She wondered, as she floated off to sleep again, if it had done any good to get up in the night and try to please Louise. Louise hadn’t said a word of thanks.
Chapter 9
Amorelle was downstairs at eight o’clock promptly for breakfast. She was one of those who could set herself like an alarm clock and wake on the dot.
But breakfast was fifteen minutes late. Ida was cross. She had been out all night at a relative’s house and didn’t get to the house till five minutes of eight.
Uncle Enoch came in looking tired and sick and careworn. He brightened when he saw Amorelle.
“You down?” he said with surprise. “I thought you would sleep late after your journey.” But he seemed pleased to see her. He asked her about her father’s last sickness.
“I wish you had written me sooner,” he said sadly. “I would have tried to get away and see him. We used to be very close to one another.”
Amorelle told him how her father had spoken of him so lovingly several times in those last days, and how they had not thought he would be going quite so soon. The doctor had thought it might be several months if he took care of himself.
“I could have got away. I’m sure I could if I had only been insistent enough,” he kept repeating sadly. “But I’m glad you’re here. I’m not sure how happy you’ll be! There are always so many outsiders around it doesn’t seem like home anymore. Louise has so many hangers-on. She’s just back from school, you know.”
He kept looking earnestly at Amorelle and telling her over and over again how much she looked like her mother. “You had a lovely mother,” he said earnestly.
Amorelle was happy while she was talking to him. She told herself that it was going to be worthwhile being there, even through some unpleasantness, if only to get acquainted with Uncle Enoch. And he did look like her father often. She could see the same expression hovering over his face now and then.
He seemed almost reluctant as he rose to go at last.
“Well, I’ve enjoyed my breakfast,” he said with almost a smile. “I usually have to eat alone. You’re a good girl, and you’re like your father, too, I can see. I’m glad you’ve come.”
When he was gone, Amorelle carried the dishes out, brushed up the table, and tidied around the dining room with broom and pan, which she managed to find without instructions from the sullen Ida. Then she picked up the newspaper and glanced over it.
There wasn’t much in a strange newspaper to interest her, and after looking out the window a few minutes, she searched through the bookcases for something to read. But there was nothing but modern fiction of the most lurid type—books she had heard condemned by thoughtful people, books with titles that fairly leered at you, magazines of a world for which she did not care. She was suddenly appalled at the new life. How was she to get through her days? There would be that little contact with her uncle in the morning before he went to his office. Perhaps she could hope to win him out of his taciturnity and make a companion of him, but he would never take the place of her father. It was not in him.
There would be work. She could see that very plainly, and she was not afraid of work, though she rather resented the way in which it was demanded of one who came as an invited guest. However, she was willing to work. But what should she do in the intervals? There surely would be intervals, even in a day’s work.
She went upstairs and made her bed, put some of her pictures and personal belongings around the room, tried to make it look cheery. Then she sat down to read her Bible and pray.
She heard a bell ring distantly, heard a tray come jingling to her aunt’s door. By that time her own door was open, and she was listening for the rest of the house to awake. She didn’t exactly know what to do with herself. She would have gone out to take a walk only it didn’t seem quite the thing to do the first morning, and she was a guest. Or was she a guest? Was she not perhaps a servant? Well, the servant of the Lord, anyway, ready to do what was His will for her, even if it was not pleasant. At least that was the attitude she wanted to have. But somehow she could not quite bring herself to go down and ask that grumpy Ida for orders. She would wait till her aunt told her what she wanted. If she didn’t make things definite pretty soon, she would ask her to.
So Amorelle sat in her room, read awhile, did a little mending, and waited until she heard Aunt Clara go downstairs. Then she hurried down after her and entered the dining room where her aunt sat at the table engaged in reading the morning mail.
The elder woman lifted her eyes and gave Amorelle a cold look.
“Oh, so here are you!” she said in an accusing tone. “I supposed you would be in the kitchen helping Ida.”
Amorelle stood still, looking at her aunt.
“I beg your pardon,” she said gravely. “I did what I could see needed doing around the dining room. If you will give me a list of things you would like me to be responsible for I’ll be glad to attend to them.”
Her aunt stared at her.
“Why didn’t you ask Ida what she wanted you to do?”
The color flamed into Amorelle’s pale cheeks.
“It didn’t occur to me,” she said calmly. “I thought you were the one to tell me what you wanted. I’m not visiting Ida. But I’m quite glad to help in any way you want me to.”
Aunt Clara raised her eyebrows as high as they would go, but Amorelle gave her a pleasant look back, and eventually the eyebrows relaxed.
“Oh, very well, if you look at it that way I suppose I can write out a regular program for you. I’ll see that you have it this afternoon.”
There was plenty on the program when it was handed to her at lunchtime, and studying it over at her leisure that afternoon, she found that she was expected to do a rather full day’s work for an invited guest. However, after the first flame of anger died down, she was able to look at the matter more calmly, especially after she had prayed about it.
I’m here now; I came at my father’s request to get acquainted with my uncle and, if possible, get him to receive the gospel of salvation. I’m not going to let a mere selfish, disagreeable aunt drive me away by a little work. I don’t mind work.
So she went downstairs to survey her field of labor and get acquainted with her new duties. If possible, she meant to perform her activities as far as might be when Ida was out of the kitchen. Ida had a lofty, ugly way with her, and Amorelle wished, as far as was possible, to get along without clashes while only as long as it took to pack up again. But she knew her conscience and her promises to her father would not be satisfied with going at once, so she determined to be as cheerful as possible and do her work as unto the Lord and not as unto Ida or Aunt Clara.
When Louise sauntered down just before lunch was finished, she asked Amorelle if she wouldn’t make a cake for her to take to a picnic that afternoon, and Amorelle perceived that Louise intended to make use of her also. But she made the cake.
After three or four days, it became apparent to Amorelle that she was not to be taken into the life of the household at all. That so far as Louise and Aunt Clara were concerned, she was no more to them than Ida, and that the only difference between herself and Ida was that she ate at the table with the family and Ida didn’t.
It was only the breakfast hour which she had alone with her uncle that kept her from leaving at once. It was pitiful how glad Uncle Enoch was to see her in the mornings. It seemed to put a brightness into his face and a light into his eyes. He lingered a few minutes every morning talking with her and often asked questions about her father and his work. Amorelle talked on sweetly, telling little items about their everyday life, telling of her father’s work and study, of his parish and how they loved him, telling tender little incidents of the church life. She loved to talk about the dear past days, and her uncle seemed to like to hear it. Gradually she was introducing him to the members of the parish one by one, and he would often surprise her with a hearty laugh over some of her character sketches. He told her one morning that it was as good as reading a novel to listen to her talk. So, more and more, Amorelle felt that she could not leave yet, no matter how disagreeable the rest of the family became.
One night when there were no guests at the table, Aunt Clara fixed her eyes on Amorelle and asked her bluntly, “Did your father leave you much money?” She never called her by name if she could help it, though Louise had gradually taken up her name after asking several times how to pronounce it.
Amorelle gave her aunt an astonished look, tried to conquer the anger that sprang up in her heart, and then, with an amused little quiver of a smile, answered, “Does any minister in a small suburban church where there are very few wealthy people ever leave much behind him when he goes?”
“Clara!” protested Uncle Enoch sternly. “That’s not a proper question to ask the child.”
“I don’t know why,” said Aunt Clara complacently, helping herself to more cream on the sliced peaches she was eating. “If she belongs to the family as you are always saying, I don’t know why we shouldn’t know what circumstances she is in. I think it is our right.”
“It is all right, Uncle Enoch,” said the girl, trying to smile. “I don’t mind your knowing that I haven’t very much. The last year there were very heavy expenses connected with Father’s illness, but everything is paid, I’m thankful to say. There aren’t any debts. That’s what Father was most afraid of.”
“H’m. He would be,” murmured the stern-eyed man gravely. “He was always that way.”
“But I don’t see why he wasn’t afraid of leaving his only daughter without sufficient support. I think he was criminally to blame if he didn’t leave her pretty well fixed. Surely he had a life insurance, didn’t he?”
“Clara, I insist that Amorelle shall not be put through an inquisition.” This from Uncle Enoch.
“My father did all that he possibly could for me, Aunt Clara,” said Amorelle quietly. “He gave me a good education, and I am quite able to earn my living if that should be necessary.”
“Yes, but he should have had insurance!” said Aunt Clara fretfully. “A man is very much to blame not to have insurance! It shows a lack of intelligence and forethought. A girl alone in the world! To leave her dependent upon relatives who may not be really able to support her!”
A cold, angry retort came to Amorelle’s lips. She gave her aunt one angry flash from her eyes, and then just in time, there came to her a phrase she had read in her Bible that morning, and whose promise she had claimed for her keeping that day: “Unto Him that is able to keep you from falling…”
She could not possibly go through such maddening scenes as this in her own strength without a fall, but He could keep her. She kept saying it over and over to herself, “He is able to keep me from falling! He is able to keep me from falling.”
Amorelle dropped her eyes to her plate and kept her lips still. Uncle Enoch gave her one pitying look and closed his lips. Something in her sweet look seemed to make him understand. He said no more, and Aunt Clara went on moralizing on the wisdom of caring for your children. But nobody answered her, and at last she turned cold persistence on Amorelle and asked pointedly, “Didn’t your father leave any insurance at all?”
Amorelle waited an instant before she replied, and then she lifted sweet, pained eyes and said, “Aunt Clara, please, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it anymore.”
“Well, really!” said Aunt Clara with a snort. “Is that the way your father brought you up to talk to your elders?”
Louise giggled offensively. But Amorelle sat quietly looking down, and presently, in spite of all that she could do, two great tears collected and dropped brightly down into her lap.
Uncle Enoch saw them and drew a long, deep sigh. Louise saw them and stared speculatively, wondering just what kind of creature this strange new cousin was that she did not make some angry retort. Aunt Clara saw them and was mightily incensed because she couldn’t seem to think of anything to say to wither this girl who was in their household against her will, and who it seemed had to stay here. She could see she was going to turn Enoch Dean’s heart away from any interest in her own insolent child, and there would be money to be left to someone someday. Perhaps not all to his wife. Somehow she must prevent such a calamity.
But Louise sat and stared. She could see that Amorelle was angry. She could understand that she was not the kind of girl who was afraid to answer back or unable to think of sharp things to say. She had already learned that Amorelle was bright and keen. Why didn’t she answer back and give Clara as good as she had given? She was able, and she was angry. Why didn’t she do it? What was the secret of her life that made her strong while yet she was simple and sweet?
Louise had always gained her victories by insolence, at least with her mother. It had been her great weapon since babyhood. To be sure it hadn’t worked so well on Enoch, but then he was old and odd. But this girl had her reserves and held them quietly, without wrath, and got away with it. Actually, she was getting away with it with Clara. Clara wasn’t getting her answer at all! She wasn’t finding out what she wanted to know! Louise marveled.
Then when the two tears fell she knew there was a weakness somewhere. Her lip began to curl in scorn, but something arrested her thought. Was it weakness after all? Was it not the greater strength? The girl was obviously feeling cut to the heart, but she hadn’t meant to let those tears fall. No more followed them. She was in command again, and in a minute she looked up, and finding Louise’s eyes upon her, smiled a faint smile at her. The strangest thing about it all was that Louise found herself sort of smiling back again. She hadn’t meant to in the least, but she had done it. It was a sort of overture of peace between them. Amorelle had recognized that Louise had seen her hurt and had not resented her gaze. Well, it was strange. This girl had something about her that Louise couldn’t understand, and someday she meant to find out its secret.
The dessert came on and created a diversion. Silence settled on the table until Ida had withdrawn. Then Louise, just to prevent another ominous silence—which meant a long and tiresome altercation between her mother and her stepfather afterward—turned to him and said in a flippant tone, “Well, Enoch, when are you going to buy me a little run-about? All the rest of the girls have got fathers who buy them cars, but I have to walk or beg rides from the men! Aren’t you ever going to buy me a car, Enoch?”
Louise hadn’t the slightest idea that her stepfather would ever buy her a car. Her mother gasped at the very audacity of the request, but Enoch Dean looked at her gravely.
“I certainly should not consider such a thing for a minute so long as you continue to call me by my first name. It is most offensive!”
Louise stared at him in wonder. Did he mean that he would actually do big things like that for her if she acted in a way to please him? Perhaps it would be worthwhile. Could she do it and get away with it? It might be worth considering.
But the l
ady of the house shoved back her chair with an angry look that boded no good to her family and sailed offendedly from the room.
Amorelle vanished through the pantry door to make some arrangements for the morning, and Uncle Enoch took his cane and hobbled out.
After she went upstairs, Amorelle could hear an angry altercation going on in her uncle’s room below. Poor Uncle Enoch was taking it in her place. Should she have answered her aunt minutely? She sat down and considered. Of course it was none of her business to inquire about money, but perhaps she ought to have answered more politely. The real difficulty, as Amorelle had to acknowledge to herself, was that until her aunt had asked the questions, insurance had never entered her mind. It seemed to her that several years ago she had heard her father speak of paying his insurance. He was not one who talked much about his business affairs. Once, about three years ago when he first began to be ill, he had told her that his will and important papers were in a little fireproof drawer in his desk. She had begged him not to speak of wills and wept, and he had smiled and told her not to be foolish and it was always best to look things in the face and be ready for any contingency. It came to her suddenly while her aunt was speaking that she had not thought of a will, nor of insurance.
Several months before, her father had put his bank account in their joint names, lest he should be sick and unable to sign checks. And Amorelle had taken it for granted that everything was turned over to her and there was therefore no need of a will.
She had given no thought whatever to the matter. In her haste to get away from Rivington and the consequences of Mrs. Brisbane’s ill-advised activities, she had not even taken time to open the drawers of her father’s desk and go through his important papers. In fact, the thought of it just then would have been so sorrowful to her that she would have avoided it even if she had had the time.
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