Amorelle

  The young voices did not pause for more than “Hello” as the elder man arrived among them but chattered and laughed on. And then she heard another door open on the second floor and a woman’s step, the rustle of a skirt, a waft of perfume, and she knew her aunt was coming out. Now was her time, and she sped down her flight and met the imperious lady of the house, just advancing from her room to the head of the lower flight of stairs.

  “Is—this—Aunt Clara?” she asked, shyly lifting her eyes to meet hard, calculating gray ones that surveyed her coldly.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the woman, not offering any warmer salute. “Ida said you had come. Did you have any trouble in finding your way?” She put her hand on the balustrade and advanced one foot to the top step of the stairs.

  “Oh no,” said Amorelle quietly, wishing she had stayed in her room, “no trouble at all.”

  “Well, you may as well come right down to dinner,” said the aunt, launching her heavy body on the downward way and indicating by a casual motion of her free hand that Amorelle might follow her if she chose.

  Amorelle, struggling to keep her meekness, followed.

  At the foot of the stairs, the rest of the party was grouped. An elderly, sad-eyed man with a cane, somewhat apart from the young people, leaned back against a heavy mulberry curtain, which draped the wide doorway to the dining room, as if he had no part in the activity that was about to occur. There was something half-familiar in the lines of his face, though when she tried to find it, there seemed only dullness and indifference, a disappointing likeness to something precious.

  The two young people turned and stared at her rudely. There was something half-belligerent about the girl’s look, but there was a supercilious sneer on the young man’s face, mingled with something like surprise and an unexpected interest when he saw her.

  “Mr. Dean,” said the wife as she arrived heavily on the first floor, “your niece is here!” She gave a half wave of her hand toward Amorelle and stepped at once into the dining room.

  Amorelle thought she saw a brief gleam of interest in the silent man’s eyes as he looked up and said “Ah!” and she stepped quickly to his side and put out her hand. Her impulse would have been to give him a warm little-girl kiss; but he showed no sign that this would have been welcome, and she seemed to feel the eyes of the two young people scorching her back with contempt.

  But her uncle took her hand, slowly, in both of his own, and held it warmly, looking down into her eyes with something like hunger for an instant.

  “Oh, you look like your mother!” he said in a half-hesitant voice. “You have eyes like hers! I’m—glad you have come!” Then he dropped her hand suddenly, as if he felt he had forgotten himself and held it too long already, and a peevish voice from the dining room showed he was right.

  “Come, Mr. Dean, are you going to stand out there in the hall all evening sentimentalizing? Don’t you know you are holding us all up and the dinner is getting cold?”

  A sensitive flush went over the man’s face and Amorelle felt for him, almost as if he had been her father. That sensitive look was like her father.

  He hurried in instantly and went to his seat at the head of the table. Amorelle all too soon came to see that it was one of the few places in this household where he took the actual head.

  His wife was already standing grimly at her own chair, looking reproachfully at him until he was in place. Then she turned hard eyes on the new arrival.

  “You may sit there!” She indicated the seat at her left. “I’m sure I don’t know what to call you. You have a simply impossible name. I’ve never been able to pronounce it or remember it.”

  Amorelle tried to summon a pleasant smile.

  “It is an odd name, isn’t it? It was my mother’s maiden name, you know, Amorelle!”

  “Absurd!” said the older woman. “I shall never be able to pronounce it in all the world. So unpractical, something like a fairy tale. Haven’t you a middle name?”

  “No,” said Amorelle gravely.

  “We’ll have to find something. Just plain Jane would be better than that fancy thing. Well, shall we sit down, Mr. Dean?”

  They sat down, and Uncle Enoch bowed his head and mumbled and hurried an inaudible grace while the others maintained a half-amused silence, with heads scarcely even inclined toward a respectful angle.

  “So absurd in this day and age,” gurgled Aunt Clara with an embarrassed smile toward the grinning youth who was their guest. “It’s an old custom in Mr. Dean’s family, and he can’t seem to get over it,” she explained.

  Amorelle flashed a quick look of sympathy toward her uncle before she remembered that every glance was being watched by the lynx-eyed Louise who sat opposite her. It would not be a politic move, for either herself or Uncle Enoch, for her to be ranged with him against them all on this first night of her arrival, before she even knew them. And what was to be gained by it? So she dropped her eyes to her lap for the time being until they stopped noticing her. Later, when the talk was going more freely between Louise, her mother, and her guest, she could venture to study this other girl who was her cousin.

  She wasn’t really pretty, Amorelle decided; her mouth was too selfish for that and her black eyes too small, but she was smart looking. Her hair was very black and slicked close to her head, bobbed of course, and licked out sharply on the artificial pallor of her sallow cheeks. Her ears were showing and carried long, sparkling earrings. She was wearing a bright red satin dress, cut exceedingly low in the back and with no sleeves. Amorelle studied her curiously. She was not familiar with low backs except in fashion magazines. Her world did not wear them, though of course she knew they existed. One did not wear low-backed dresses to a prayer meeting, or even to a church social, in Rivington. She realized that her plain brown crepe was not in a class with this new cousin’s apparel. Even Aunt Clara was wearing a low-cut black lace dress, and her stout white arms were bare to the shoulder. Amorelle realized that she must look like a little brown sparrow next to her aunt and cousin.

  But it was presently borne in upon her that neither aunt nor cousin was aware now of her existence. At least they had the air of trying to forget that she was there. And presently when she raised her eyes to her uncle, who had been addressing himself to his fruit cup, she found his eyes upon her furtively, and she flashed him a real smile without getting caught at it by the others.

  “Did you have a comfortable journey?” he suddenly asked her in a low tone, under cover of the hilarious laughter over one of the young man’s jokes.

  “Quite comfortable, thank you,” she answered with another warm look that thanked him for the friendly little question.

  “What did you say, Mr. Dean?” demanded the querulous tone of Aunt Clara, stopping in the midst of her flattering laughter.

  “Oh, nothing!” said the man of the house quickly. “I was just asking Amorelle about her journey.”

  “Oh, you seem to have mastered her name quickly enough, though I’m sure you haven’t heard it in years!” she sneered politely. “Well, don’t you think it would be better form if you spoke loud enough for everybody to hear? I hate to be thinking someone is speaking to me and I have not known it.”

  The man flashed her a bitter look. It struck Amorelle that he looked so much older than her father had, though she knew he was almost five years younger.

  “Will you ring for some bread and butter to be brought?” he suddenly demanded and looked down at his plate again.

  “Oh, Enoch, don’t you know this is dinner? We don’t eat bread and butter with dinner!” snickered Louise amusedly.

  “Do you really mean that you want bread at dinnertime, Mr. Dean?” asked his wife disapprovingly. “You know it is not our custom to serve it in the evening.”

  “I do!” said Uncle Enoch, lifting his eyes sternly to his wife’s for an instant and then dropping them to his plate again.

  “But you know that nobody, simply nobody, serves bread at night with dinner,” argued h
is wife.

  “I do,” said Uncle Enoch doggedly.

  “And butter?” asked the incredulous voice.

  “And butter!” said the determined voice.

  “But I never heard of such a thing, Mr. Dean!”

  “Yes,” said Uncle Enoch, apparently unexpectedly, for his answer had a sudden silencing effect, “you have heard of it. You heard of it last night when I asked for it, and the night before, and the night before that, and all the nights!”

  “Mr. Dean!” said Aunt Clara and subsided into dumb fury. Then in a moment she rang the bell and gave the order.

  “Ida, bring Mr. Dean a piece of bread and a helping of butter.”

  “No, Ida, bring a plate of bread, plenty of it, and a dish of butter!” said Uncle Enoch. “My niece may care for some also.”

  “Would you really care for bread and butter at night?” asked Aunt Clara in that incredulous tone, turning to look at Amorelle curiously but much as if she were asking it of a toad that had inopportunely hopped in her way.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Amorelle, giving her what she hoped was a bright smile that ignored the pitiful dialogue that had just occurred.

  “Oh, really?” That was all Aunt Clara said, but she flashed Amorelle a look of malice and later gave her husband another.

  Louise ducked her head sideways toward the young man and giggled, murmuring into her napkin, “Oh, Enoch, you’re just the limit!”

  “That will do, Louise!” said Uncle Enoch sternly, speaking to her as if she were a child. “If you can’t be respectful you can leave the table and the room!”

  “Oh, yeah?” said the girl resentfully and relapsed into a sullen silence.

  Amorelle was very uncomfortable during the remainder of the meal. She felt that in some mysterious way she had been the cause of the unpleasantness. But the young man was most effervescent. He told a funny story and presently had them all laughing, all but Uncle Enoch, who seemed not to have heard it, and Amorelle, who couldn’t quite see the point. She wondered if Aunt Clara could. Aunt Clara was apparently laughing to encourage the young man.

  It was a relief when the meal was ended.

  A man, it appeared, had been waiting in the library to see Uncle Enoch. He picked up his cane from the floor and limped off. Amorelle was relieved to see that he was really lame and hadn’t just made an excuse about coming to the funeral. But in the doorway, he suddenly turned back and looked at her as she rose from the chair.

  “You’ll—be—all right?” he asked her, under cover of the chatter of the others.

  “Oh, surely!” she said brightly with a smile. It warmed her heart to have him care and stabbed her with the consciousness that there seemed no one else to care.

  The front doorbell had rung again and several more young people barged into the house noisily. They were hailed boisterously by Louise and placidly by her mother.

  Amorelle hesitated on the threshold of the dining room and wondered what she ought to do next. Was she supposed to go in with the others? But no one made any move to introduce her. They were all engaged in talking, shouting almost it seemed, for each spoke louder than the other, and there was an immoderate amount of laughter about nothing. Amorelle felt utterly out of it. It was as if she had not been present. She began to feel like a ghost. Had she suddenly become invisible?

  Only one young man glanced across and noticed her, tried to draw her into a laugh over something he had said. They called him George. He was big and good looking, with bold blue eyes slightly disguised by long, gorgeous, golden, curly eyelashes that added a touch of the angelic to a face that otherwise might have seemed coarse. And George lifted those bold blue eyes more than once toward Amorelle, seeking for her approval of his remarks, seeking to draw her into the general conversation.

  If Amorelle had not felt so exceedingly alone there, she might have been annoyed at his informality; but as it was, she could not help a kindly feeling toward him.

  Louise, however, had noted his glance, and with a supercilious look toward her new cousin, she drew George away into the living room. The rest of the young people immediately followed.

  Amorelle made one step forward, hesitated, and Aunt Clara immediately turned upon her like a detour sign in an open road.

  “And you,” she said, looking at Amorelle as if she were something out of place, “what are you going to do now?”

  Amorelle was like a thermostat, instantly sensitive to temperature, and she knew that she was not wanted.

  “I wonder if you would mind if I slipped away and went to bed?” she asked sweetly. “I find I’m rather tired with all I’ve been through.”

  “I was wondering if you wouldn’t want to go to your room,” said the aunt, speaking more warmly than she had yet spoken to her. “If there is anything you need, or don’t know about, you can just ask Ida. I guess she gave you towels, didn’t she? Well, we have breakfast at eight o’clock. At least your uncle does. I take mine in my room and don’t usually come down before ten. Louise, of course, stays out all hours and sleeps as long as she pleases. Ida’ll tell you how you can help around after breakfast in the dining room. Good-night. I hope you’ll be comfortable!” Aunt Clara sailed placidly off into the living room and settled down to her elaborate knitting.

  Amorelle fairly flew up those stairs, out of sight. Anger and desolation blazed in her face, and she didn’t want anybody to see her. She dashed into her own room and locked the door, not even stopping to turn on the light. She went over to the little high window and looked out, determined not to cry; looked out on the myriad lights of a strange city in the distance and the clustering houses of a pleasant suburb close by. Down below her she could see into a lit room where people were sitting around a table, eating. They were all laughing and talking. It seemed a happy home. There were children in it and a grandmother. Across the way another lit room showed happy groups. She only, of all the world, seemed alone and sorrowful.

  She stood there a long time looking out on that strange world, blinking back tears she would not shed. Then softly there came to her mind the promise her father used to repeat so often:

  “I the LORD thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.”

  Then she turned and went to her refuge, kneeling at her bedside. If this was one of the tests that her heavenly Father had for her to go through that she might see how weak she was in herself without Him, and how great and strong He was in a time of trial, she was willing to yield herself to His will. It wasn’t going to be pleasant; it was going to be greatly humiliating, but He had brought her here, and perhaps He wanted her to stay awhile. At least while she stayed, He had her by the hand and nothing really harmful could come to her. But while she stayed, she must witness for Him.

  Presently she turned on the light and read her Bible. That eased her troubled spirit, and then, as she was really worn out with all the excitement and sorrow and hard work of the past few weeks, she went to bed and to sleep, hoping that the morning light would make the world seem a bit brighter.

  She did not know how long she had been asleep when she was suddenly brought back to life by a loud knocking at her door and a voice calling.

  “Hello, hello! Wake up! What on earth have you got your door locked for? You don’t think anybody is going to steal you, do you?”

  She came suddenly awake and, sitting up, looked around her. For an instant she did not know where she was. Rivington? Glenellen? The sleeping car? Then it came to her! And that was her new cousin’s nasal voice out there saying disagreeable things to her.

  “Yes? What is it?” she managed to call back sleepily.

  “For heaven’s sake open this door!” called the voice cautiously. “I can’t scream what I want.”

  Amorelle hurried to the door, grabbing her robe on her way.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Is something the matter?”

  “Plenty!” said Louise, stepping inside and drawing the door closed.

  “I just got home
with a crowd and found Ida had forgotten to make the sandwiches and hot cocoa I ordered. It’s her night out, it seems, and she never said a word. Enoch went to bed hours ago, and Clara went out to the country club with Mrs. Salisbury just as we left. There isn’t a soul to get any food for us, and of course I can’t leave my guests. Can’t you come down and make us some sandwiches or something? Anything that passes for food. We’re simply starved!”

  “Why, yes, I guess so—!” Amorelle hesitated. But perhaps this was her chance to win her way with Louise. “Yes, I’ll be down in a minute as quick as I can get some clothes on!”

  “Don’t stop to dress. Just come in pajamas. Everybody’s used to them.”

  “Well, I’m not,” laughed Amorelle.

  “Well, make it snappy. Don’t wait for stockings. Our crowd hardly ever wears ’em!”

  Amorelle refrained from replying to that. She was already drawing on hers.

  “Where shall I find things? Will you come out and show me?”

  “Mercy, no! It’s a wonder they aren’t hunting me now on the roof. You don’t know that crowd. Just go down the back stairs and you’ll find the refrigerator and pantry. Use anything you see. I’ll answer for it. Get us up a good meal and make it quick, that’s all I ask. I’ve got a coupla new fellas in tonight and I want things to be right, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ll do my best,” promised Amorelle, swinging her dress over her head.

  She waited only to get a clean apron out of the drawer and then she sped away to her task, wondering if this was a part of her testing in this strange new home to which she had come. As she went she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and cudgeled her brain to think how she could quickly make an appetizing midnight supper.

  From that night on, Amorelle’s status among them was established. She was chief cook and bottle washer at any hour of the day or night, and nothing more. They never by any means took her in as one of them, or even spoke to her except to demand more food, none of them except George Horton. He often hovered around her and helped, and nobody tried to stop him, because they didn’t want to go near enough to any work themselves to have it supposed they knew how to do it. George Horton was pleasant and kind and joked a good deal, and she accepted his assistance as she would have that of a child who liked to hover around the kitchen.