Mr. Aiken took his departure presently, and Amorelle, after reporting briefly to Miss Landon what they had found, went to her room to read her father’s letter.
There was so much in that letter. She was amazed. When she read it the second time, and the third, she began to realize that it touched upon everything that had troubled her and perplexed her in the days that had followed his death. Yes, and in the whole winter. Here it had been stowed away in his desk all the time, full directions about how she should proceed, full details of his life insurance and everything financial. Advice that she had longed for! And he had even told her he was writing that letter, and yet she had so forgotten it that she hadn’t opened his desk to find out.
That afternoon when she told Miss Landon about it, that sweet saint replied with a far-away look in her eyes, “Isn’t that for all the world the way we do with our heavenly Father’s letter? He has filled it with instructions, advice, sympathy, comfort, love, everything we need, including promises to supply all our needs, and we just get so busy trying to work out our own little problems that we don’t take time to read it.”
Amorelle smiled over that that night as she remembered her day in the woods with Garrison and what he had said along those same lines.
She took out her father’s letter again to read it over, and suddenly one paragraph stood out from all the rest and claimed her attention.
I’ve just one word to say about marriage, precious child, more than I have already said to you by word of mouth. Don’t ever marry anyone unless you love him with all your heart, and unless he and you are absolutely one in the matter of spiritual things!
Ah! Her father would never have favored her marriage with George. And she felt absolutely sure that, were he here this minute, he would say she must break with him at once, for she remembered his oft-repeated saying: “A bad promise is better broken than kept.”
Chapter 17
The season was much more advanced here in Glenellen than in the west. For three days Amorelle basked in the quiet joy of Aunt Lavinia’s home, sitting beside the dear invalid while she was awake and able to talk with her; hovering around the old nurse, Bonny, in the kitchen; sitting on the side porch behind the lilacs, shelling peas or just looking into the sweet, shimmering beauty of the little old-fashioned garden of pinks, phlox, and verbenas, with delphiniums and white Canterbury bells like tall steeples, and a bank of purple-and-gold pansies at the end of the porch. There were many bees and butterflies hovering in the sunshine around the quaint old house, and a hummingbird had built its nest in the honeysuckle vine. It was beautiful just to sit and dream and know that this was her own real home. If only the dear old lady could stay, too, and share it with her. How she loved it all! How good God had been to give it to her and make her free from further dependence!
She had put away the thought of George and of everything else connected with her life in the city. It was as if she were sheltered here to rest and wait to see what God would tell her to do.
Then on the fifth morning, as if a hand had been laid upon her, she awoke in the early dawn and immediately knew that she was to arise and write that letter to George. It was as clear as if she had received a direction from above, and she obeyed without hesitation. She had no need even to search for words. They were there, ready for her pen, waiting in the pearl-dewiness of the morning.
Dear George:
I could not write you sooner because I had to get my bearings and understand myself. For a long time I have been knowing that there was something wrong about my feeling for you, and I wanted to get quiet and think it out. Now I feel that I have come to know the truth, and it is not kind to you to hide it from you any longer. I have come face to face with the fact that I do not love you enough to marry you, and I know I never will.
I feel ashamed, George, that I did not know this before, but I truly thought I loved you in the right way, although you remember I was very uncertain about it for a long time at first. For some time now I have been troubled that some things were not as I had always supposed they would be, and I see now that it was because I did not care in the right way. It came with a sort of shock to me that day after we had been out to look at the house together, and I realized that if I really loved you as you thought I did, and as I hoped I did, I would not care what kind of a sink the house had, if you wanted it and liked it and it was better for you. So, you see, I had no right to marry you. I am afraid I have been thinking a great deal more about having a home the way I wanted it than about whether I would be making you happy, and you can see yourself that is not right.
I hope you will forgive me and bear me no hard feeling. Perhaps if my mother had lived, I would have been wiser about such things and not have made promises which I find I cannot fulfill. I am sending you in this same mail the ring you gave me, registered. I know you will find someone else far better suited to be your wife than I am and that you will someday thank me for not going any farther after I found out.
I shall always be your true friend and well-wisher.
Very sincerely,
Amorelle
After Amorelle had sent off the letter and the ring, she went around the house singing like a bird. Somehow it seemed that she had a new lease on life. The very air seemed sweeter, the day more bright. Aunt Lavinia, from her couch, watched her and smiled.
Three days later came a reply from George, written on business stationery.
Amorelle:
The ring and your letter just arrived. I thought you knew better than to trust anything so valuable as that ring to the mail! You remember I told you I got that diamond for an investment, and I thought you were sensible enough to take care of it, but it seems I was mistaken.
As for the letter, I see you still have your grouch on, but you are carrying things a little too far this time. I can easily have a new sink put in that kitchen, of course, and I probably should have done so, unnecessary as it seems, if you had gone about it in the right way. But it is the principle of the thing I can’t stand. No one can bully me into anything by doing the spoiled-child act, and you might as well learn that now as any time.
Of course, I know that you don’t mean any of this sentimental bosh you have written for a minute, and you haven’t an idea of taking you seriously; but it is beneath the woman I expect to make my wife for her to descend to methods like this, and I warn you I will not stand for it.
However, I do not care to discuss this matter on paper. I insist that you come back to your aunt’s house at once and put aside this childishness or I will not answer for the consequences. I will call on Friday evening, and we will straighten this thing out. But I am keeping the ring until you return, as I do not consider it safe to send such things by mail, and I want to be good and sure you know how to take care of it before I put it in your hands again. Be sure to be home Friday. I won’t put up with any more tantrums.
George
When Amorelle read this letter, the color flew into her cheeks and her eyes grew hard and bright. Around her gentle, yielding lips that had worn patient lines so long, a firm determination grew. Then her face broke into a wondering smile. She let the letter drop to the floor and slipped down to her knees beside her chair.
“Father,” she whispered, “I thank You for showing me.” Then she arose and wrote with swift pen:
Dear George:
You are mistaken. I am not in a grouch, and I mean every word I wrote in that letter. Please read it over again and try to understand. If I needed anything more to convince me that I was right in writing it, I have it in your letter, which came this morning.
I have nothing but kindly feeling toward you, and I regret that I did not know my own mind sooner, but I do not wish to discuss the matter further, and there is nothing to straighten out. There are just the facts as I wrote them in my letter.
I am not coming back at all. I have accepted a position in the bank here in Glenellen and am going to remain with my mother’s friend, who is slowly dying and needs me.
 
; Sincerely,
Amorelle
With a quick glance at her watch, Amorelle took both letters and hurried down to Miss Landon.
“Aunt Lavinia, please read these letters and see if you think George will understand now,” she said, handing out the letters.
The old lady began to read, sniffing indignantly as she progressed and fairly sizzling with indignation as she finished.
“What a little pig of a soul that man must have!” she snorted.
But as she read Amorelle’s answer, amused satisfaction came upon her face.
“No, child,” she said with a twinkle, as she handed the letters back, “that man will never understand you because he isn’t capable of doing so. He isn’t big enough. But I think it will astonish him, and I certainly would like to be a fly on the wall when he reads it. You needn’t worry any about that man’s affections; he hasn’t any, or if he has any, the seat of them is in his pocketbook. If he had cared the least little mite about the real you, he would have been down here on the first train. He would at least have telephoned or telegraphed. But no, I suspect that would have cost too much. Well Amorelle, child, run to the post office. You’ve just time to get this in the noon mail. I’m curious to see what the poor creature will do next.”
Amorelle cast a frightened glance at her old friend.
“Do? You think he’ll do anything more, do you?”
Miss Landon laughed.
“I don’t think he’s even begun yet. He evidently considers you so thoroughly his that nothing you say will matter. Wait till he really finds out that you mean it. Run along quick, child, or you’ll miss the mail.”
Amorelle hurried down the pleasant village street with a song in her heart. Somehow life had suddenly become good to live. She pushed the letter into the little post office window and then went over to the bank to tell them she would be ready to begin her work the next day.
The morning seemed to be pulsing in golden waves through her heart and making her feet move in rhythmic measure, as if some music of the spheres were directing all her movements. As she came in from the sunshine and stood in the door of the old lady’s room, her hair seemed to be a halo around her face, and her eyes had taken on a starriness that made her very beautiful. Miss Landon, watching her, rejoiced in the sweet young life that had come to be with her in her last days. It was almost like having a daughter of her own.
Acting on her old friend’s advice, Amorelle wrote to her uncle at his office a breezy, loving letter, thanking him for all he had done for her, telling him of Miss Landon’s condition, saying she decided to stay with her while she lived and had taken a position in the Glenellen bank, which would enable her to be independent. She thanked him again for his kindness when she left and added at the end, “I think you may be glad to know I have broken my engagement with George.”
Then she wrote a brief little note to her aunt.
Dear Aunt Clara:
I am writing to tell you that I have broken my engagement with George Horton. I felt that I did not care for him in the right way to marry him. I have a job here now in the bank and shall stay right here with Miss Landon while she lives. She has hardening of the arteries and has not long to live, the doctor says. She seems to want me very much.
Hoping you are all quite well and enjoying the summer.
Lovingly,
Amorelle
She read this letter over carefully, wondering whether she had made it as pleasant as she possibly could, hoping that none of her bitterness of soul had crept in, and feeling no ill will for the days and nights of loneliness she had endured in her aunt’s house.
It was like cutting the last tie that bound her to another life when she went down to mail those letters, and her heart was filled with what was almost exultation as she dropped them into the box, although she gave a little, wistful, lingering, affectionate touch to Uncle Enoch’s, for the old man who had given her so much kindness as he had been allowed to give.
She never dreamed what a breeze she was stirring up back in the West.
Promptly as the mail could carry, came a letter from Aunt Clara:
Dear Amorelle:
You must be crazy to think of such a thing as breaking an engagement with so estimable a young man as George Horton. Any girl in these days ought to be proud to have caught such a man as he is. Your uncle says his business prospects are fine. You can’t expect ever to find another who will look at you. You must know you are a plain, old-fashioned girl. That is no matter, of course, if one is good, and is sometimes a good thing, because one doesn’t have to bother so much about dressing up to her face, but it does count with men, and you don’t want to be an old maid do you? Who will support you when you get old? You can’t expect your uncle to do it always, you know. And I’m sure I don’t see how a good girl, such as I’ve always supposed you were, could do such a thing as break an engagement after it has gone on so long. Why, you’re almost the same as married. It’s not honorable, you know. If it should get out, it would be a disgrace to the family. And it’s utterly ungrateful in you, after all we’ve done for you, to turn around and act this way. I can’t understand what’s got into you. I suppose it’s that foolish old woman you’re visiting who is influencing you. But you’re not doing right, and we won’t have it, your uncle and I. Haven’t you any feeling for Louise? Poor Louise, who was so lovely and unselfish about your going away. I don’t know what she’ll say when she gets back from Augusta Roberts’s house party! And think how she sat up half the night before she left sewing that pink gingham I meant to have you put the bias bands on before you left! It’s very selfish of you. What will people say? What will they think of Louise? You should think of Louise and not disgrace her. She’s younger than you and ought to have her chance in life the same as you did.
Now, Amorelle, I’m speaking in place of your mother. I want you to pack right up when you get this and come back on the next train. We’ll send for George and patch this thing up. It’s all nonsense about your not loving him. Girls don’t know anything about love until they’re married. It isn’t delicate for them to. I’d be ashamed of Louise if she went around talking about whether she loved a man or not. Love comes afterward naturally. It isn’t intended you should feel things like that before you’re married. It isn’t modest.
Your uncle says you have plenty of money for a return trip, so don’t delay a minute. Mind! Take the first train. And we’ll all forgive you and not say anything more about the unfortunate matter. I’ll answer for George’s coming round. I know how to manage him.
Indignantly, your aunt,
Clara
P.S. The plums are ripe, and we can get them put up before they are gone if you hurry.
When Amorelle read this letter she felt like a freed thing that had suddenly got tangled in a net again. Little trembly feelings came in all her joints, and the tears sprang to her eyes. She took it down to Miss Landon and let her read it. Was it possible she was wrong? Had she let her engagement go on too long, and was it dishonorable now to break it, the same as if she had married and must be true to her vows?
But Aunt Lavinia’s voice was firm and decided.
“No, child! No! A thousand times. You would be dishonorable indeed if you married a man you could not love. You don’t realize what you are talking about. One cannot feign love through a long lifetime, and if you are tied to a wrong mate it is agony for both. This George might be so thick-skinned that he wouldn’t recognize what was the matter. But he wouldn’t be really happy any more than you would, because he would be merely having you as a chattel, like the furniture of his house, and you wouldn’t be his in spirit at all, only in body. It is what is making so many wretched marriages today and so many divorces. And being engaged is not the same as marriage. It is not right to go on and take vows knowing you cannot keep them. That’s no way to live. It’s a desecration. God made the sacrament of marriage holy, a symbol of His relation with those who choose to be His own. That’s what you father used to preach. Any w
ho enter into marriage vows without giving the whole of themselves are desecrating it. There would be only wranglings and heartaches and no happiness for anybody. Isn’t it worlds better for the body to be hungry and unsheltered sometimes than for the soul to go on shivering all its life? I tell you, child, you must be true to your own soul in spite of anybody else. This is not a question where selfishness comes in. It is a question of holiness, of right and wrong. It would be a sin to marry a man whose soul cannot be a part of your soul.”
Amorelle sat on the edge of the bed, looking out the open window where wooded hills rose mistily in the distance across a long stretch of sunlit meadow and the hummingbirds flitted past with a flash of purple and green and gold. Into her eyes there came a dreamy look. What would it be like to have a life companion like that? One who was a part of your own soul, who knew your very thoughts and anticipated them, who held sweet converse with you day by day and made life all a pleasant walk, even when the way was rough and dark? Then before her there came a vision of a man and sudden remembrance of his eyes as he called her “You poor kid!” and said, “I couldn’t see leaving you with those bums.” And again, when he gave her that warming smile and said, “This is our day!”
Something in her heart rose and grasped for unnamed joy, and then suddenly her conscience and her maidenhood arose in alarm. Her cheeks flushed, and she sat up very straight and took herself in hand. Am I a fool? she asked herself harshly. And the vision vanished mistily as she took her eyes sharply from the window, but not before the gold from the hummingbird’s wing as he flashed by again had stabbed her heart with a sudden ache of joy.
“You are right, I know, Aunt Lavinia,” she said. “Aunt Clara never was right unless it just happened to suit her. Now I’m going up to write to her. I’m sorry about the plums, but it can’t be helped, and she can live without plum preserves, anyway.”