Amorelle (7 page)

“Well, I’ve had you on my mind right along!” responded Mrs. Brisbane with a look of satisfaction.

They filed out presently, after a few expressions of sympathy, but there was in their manner a crestfallen look of offense—if those two things can be combined—that was almost amusing.

“For all the world like three wet hens that had just had a bucket of cold water frowned over ’em an’ lost out in gettin’ the worm!” spoke out Hannah, just behind her as Amorelle closed the door after her callers.

Amorelle turned with a start.

“Oh, Hannah!” she said, dropping weakly on the stairs. “When did you come in? How you startled me!”

“H’m! I come in jes ez the doorbell done rung!” responded the faithful old servant. “I made out ta go ta the door, but you got there fust. I just stuck around in the kicchem an’ lissum good. They all jes’ like three old animals come snoopin’ round, tryin’ to get things for theirselves. That big one name Ferguson with the man voice, she like n’elefant; that Woods woman somepin’ like a chipmunk chatterin’ away; and that Brisbane, she like one of these ferrets. There just ain’t nothin’ she don’t know. You ain’t gwine let ’em browbeat you, is you, honey? You ain’t gwine give in an’ let um have any your nice old things?”

“Oh, no, Hannah!” said Amorelle, laughing. “I’ve sold what I don’t want and I’m keeping the rest. I think I made them understand.”

“Yes, you was right firm in your words, honey. I was proud of you. But now, honey, what you gwine do? I’se back now an’ I’se ready ta he’p. Sorry I hedta leave you just then, but I couldn’t he’p it nohow. I knowed you’d understand. But my other sister come from up the state now, an’ I’here ta stay, an’ the fust thing I’se gwine do is get you a nice mess o’vittles. I bet you ain’t et sence I lef ’.”

“Oh, yes I have, Hannah! I’ve been all right. But I’m glad you’ve got back. It’s lonesome, nights especially. And there’ll be a good deal to do getting the house cleaned. I want to get out as soon as possible. The things that I’m keeping will all be taken tonight and tomorrow, and the things I’m selling will be taken whenever I am ready to let them go. I’ve saved a few things for you I knew you liked.”

“That’s jis’ like you, honey-sweet!” said the servant gratefully.

Hannah walked through the rooms, her arms akimbo, and surveyed the destruction, ending with a tremendous sigh.

“Well it do make me feel sad,” she said, “but I’m glad you was brae an’ started right in. Who all’s got your pre-anna?”

“Little Tessy Wayne!”

“H’m! Well, I ’spose you kin get a better one someday. It was powerful scratched up sence the las’ time they young folks borrahed it ta take over ta the church fer that shebang they had last Easter. You done kep’ the parlor furnitoor? H’m! Well, we’ll get to wuk good an’ early tamorrah. Mebbe I’ll get in a fe licks tonight yet. Now le’s see what we got ta make supper of. I brang along a steak. That big butcher down ta the corner sent it. He said you needed ta be fed up, an’ when I passed Janders’ fruit store, they called me in an’ said ta bring this here basket of fruit down. Got grapes an’ pears an’ apples an’ a big honeydew mellum, an’ he gimme a bag with a shellin’ of peas an’ three ears of lovely corn. I’ll whip up some tea biscuits an’ we’ll have supper soon. You go lay down an’ fergit them three pizenmouthed wimmen awhile, an’ I’ll jest pout things in shape out here in the kitchen.”

“Oh, but I was just going to wash some windows,” said Amorelle. “I don’t want to lie down now. I’m not tired since you’ve come.”

“Wash windows—a lot, you will!” said the old woman. “That’s no job fer you. I’ll do the cleanin’. That’s what I’m here fer. Al you gotta do from now on is boss! And say, here comes some more wimmen folks. You better skitter upstairs and lay down, an’ I’ll say you’re needin’ rest.”

“Oh, but I can’t treat the church people that way!” said Amorelle in dismay. “Who is it, I wonder?”

“Looks like that old Mrs. Ritter’s got a crazy son, an’ the nice body that lives acrost fum her; Mrs. Crosby, ain’t it?”

“Oh, I must see them. They are dear!” said the girl, remembering with a pang the last time she and her father had called up in their neighborhood.

So Hannah slid some chairs from the dining room into the parlor while Amorelle opened the door and ushered in the ladies.

The two callers were plain and loving. They brought no sharp words and bartered for none of the manse’s furnishings. They brought only sweet sympathy and offers of help. They brought humble invitations to stay with them indefinitely. The ice and anger began to melt around the troubled girl’s heart.

It did not prove to be a very good afternoon for work so far as Amorelle was concerned, for it seemed as if everybody selected that day to come and see her. All the dear, tenderhearted people who had loved her father; the plain, the substantial, the truly consecrated people of the church. They came in little groups, one overlapping the other, and they kept coming until a little after five o’clock.

They did not come to see what they could buy, nor to question her curiously; they came to offer love and help and sympathy, and Amorelle’s heart was cheered and her spirit strengthened.

One and all were dismayed at the dismantled appearance of the parlor that had once been such a cheery place to come, and they mourned that she had decided to leave them. For Amorelle told them all that she was going to visit her uncle for a time, probably all winter at least.

When the last one had gone, Hannah put her head in at the door.

“Your dinner’s all ready. You better come git it befo’ the next batch o’ folks comes.”

Amorelle ate her dinner with a better appetite than she had had for several days, and before she was through, Johnny Brewster breezed in.

“Gonta take that desk now. Gotta chance fer a coupla extras to help move it up them stairs over ta the Glen. Is’t ready ta go now? Got an old quilt ur somethin’ I ken lash over the top so it won’t get scratched? Better lock the drawers. No, I don’t need ta take ’em out. It ain’t too heavy fer four of us. We’re goin’ up in Sam Owen’s big truck. He’s goin’ out that way.”

When the desk and its swivel chair were gone, Amorelle had a wave of desolation sweep over her. But old Hannah wisely called her to consult about what should be done next, and before everything was settled, more callers had arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Tremstead, old dependables of her father’s, came to ask her to spend a week with them, or longer if she chose. They tucked in her hand an unostentatious envelope containing a crisp ten-dollar bill and gave her a deep look of love when they left. Mr. and Mrs. Farley and their little girl came to tell her how her father’s prayers had borne them up during sorrow and illness and loss. The three Hooker sisters brought a little snapshot they had taken of the church and her father standing on the steps the last day he preached there, just before his final illness. Sweet little Mrs. Brant, who had always quietly helped her pastor pray out the troubles in the congregation, came too. It thrilled her heart to remember what her beloved father had been, and when she closed the door on the last caller around half past ten, her eyes were shining and her head was up bravely. She felt comforted for the hard things that had gone before.

But as she drew her bedroom shade down, she noticed a tall, thin figure standing across the road in the shadow, as if he watched the house. Who could it be? He didn’t look like a policeman. He looked like—Oh, could that be Mr. Pike? Had he perhaps been watching for a chance to call? The last man on Mrs. Brisbane’s list of possible lovers! She snapped her light out quickly at the thought that he might even yet venture to come and began swiftly to undress in the dark.

S
ometime in the night, Amorelle awakened sharply with the impression of a sudden, stealthy noise.

Hannah was sleeping in her room at the back end of the hall and sometimes snored. But the noise had not come from the direction of Hannah’s room. It seemed, rather, to be downstairs. Amorelle listened, her senses bewildered at first. She couldn’t quite analyze the sound. She was not sure but it was part of a dream.

No! There it was again, a stealthy movement like someone sliding along on the floor. It sounded down in her father’s study. She lay rigid, listening. Yes, there it was again! It was certainly not her imagination. Perhaps it was a mouse. But a mouse would never make that sound!

Softly she rose on one elbow, staring toward the open door into the hall. Her room was at the front of the house, and from her door, she could look down the stairwell and see halfway across her father’s study.

Noiselessly she folded back the blankets, swung her feet to the floor, and reached for her flashlight that lay on the little bedside table close at hand. She stole cautiously to the door. A wraith could have gone no more silently. She steadied herself for an instant, with her hand on the doorframe, and peered down into the darkness of the hall.

There was a tiny speck of light moving around like a will-o’-the-wisp! It danced over the floor in an ordered manner—up a few inches, down the next few inches—as if the place was being searched. Once it showed a bit of fabric in a fold, as if the rug had been turned back. Then it danced away a few inches farther back, touching the bare floor for a little way.

Amorelle’s heart was in her throat. She tried to think what to do and stood paralyzed, looking around her. Was she really awake, or dreaming? She gripped the doorframe to make sure, and then the light danced around and swept the open doorway where she could see distinctly a form bending and holding a small pocket flashlight, a spot of light gushing here and there on the floor.

Amorelle had never been a girl of fears, but she stood breathlessly leaning against the doorway, studying the crouching form. Who was it, and what could he be looking for under her father’s study rug?

It seemed several minutes that she stood there, her finger on the switch of the big flashlight. Should she turn it down on the intruder and get a view of his face? But perhaps he carried a gun and the light would give him a good target.

Well, must she stand there and let him prowl through the house? She cast around in her mind for a weapon that would frighten him away quickly without making him realize just where she was. She might drop something over the stair railing that would startle him. Would that be better than making an outcry? There was a telephone extension across the hall in what had been her father’s room, but could she get across there, open the door, and telephone before he would hear her and flee—or perhaps come running up the stairs and smother her?

To be sure there was Hannah down at the end of the hall, but Hannah was sound asleep and wouldn’t be any help in an emergency like this. Hannah would likely be scared.

Amorelle didn’t realize that she was herself trembling like a leaf.

Then suddenly her bare foot came in contact with a cold metallic surface just beyond her door, and she remembered that Hannah had said she was going to begin on the upstairs windows the first thing in the morning and had brought up the scrub bucket, soap dish, scrubbing brush, ammonia bottle, and bundle of chamois and rags and dumped them by her door. What better weapons could she have wherewith to frighten a burglar? Oh, if she could only see what he was like before he fled! It was so strange what he could be doing! Why should he want to search around in front of the fireplace and bookcase? Then suddenly the prowler turned and flashed his own light for an instant full into his own face, and Amorelle’s heart stood still with unbelief. Pike! Mr. Pike! There couldn’t be another slick Uriah-Heepish face like that! What could Mr. Pike be doing down in the study? He certainly wouldn’t come to propose marriage at this time of night!

Like a flash, her fear of him disappeared and left only indignation. Whatever he was doing, he had no right.

Impulsively she stooped with silent, swift movement and felt for the handle of the big galvanized bucket.

Amorelle was unaware that Hannah, thinking her young lady might wish to sleep late in the morning and not wishing to disturb her by turning on the bathroom spigot, had drawn a goodly portion of water in the bucket before she retired to her bed. So when the bucket was lifted hastily, it proved to be heavier than anticipated. But Amorelle in her excitement swung it high over the banister, and water and all, it sailed over, just grazing the stair rail below, swashing out in a well-aimed stream toward the astonished burglar. It crashed into the hall almost beside him, where the rest of the water splashed up in a geyser-like torrent into his face and over his hands and feet.

The little spotlight on the floor of the study went black; there was a spluttering gasp, and Amorelle, now really frightened at what she had done, reached down for the saucer containing the big bar of kitchen soap and the scrubbing brush that lay beside it, and dashed them wildly after the bucket. Then she touched the switch of her flashlight and, shielding herself behind the doorjamb, poured its light in a great flood down upon her victim.

Just for an instant she had a vision of a wild-eyed Pike—yes, there was no mistaking Pike’s long, thin nose and eyes set too close together—and then he faded out of the picture. And Amorelle had sense enough to turn off her light and retreat toward her window, her heart beating so wildly she could hardly breathe.

But then suddenly things began to happen in another part of the house. There was a sound of clatter in Hannah’s room; the falling of some heavy object; heavy, bare feet moving hastily. And downstairs, there was a sound of stealthy feet, too frightened to be wary, moving hurriedly in the direction of the kitchen and the back door, feet that came into several sudden contacts with objects not reckoned on in the pathway.

Amorelle ventured out to listen again, her flashlight grasped tight in her hand but not lit.

Now Hannah had been down in the cellar that afternoon, after hearing the account of Mrs. Brisbane’s visit the day before and her remarks about the paint being worn off the windowsills, and she had discovered several pails containing small portions of leftover paint, most of them dried to the bottom. But among them she had found a gallon can half full of white paint with an inch or so of water over its surface, put there to keep it for future use. This, with a stiff paint brush in another can of water, she had brought upstairs to her room, intending, in the small hours of the morning before Amorelle should be awake, to stir up that paint to useable consistency and work over that brush with warm water and soap and two inches of turpentine she had found in a bottle until it was fit to touch up the bare places in the interior paint.

And Hannah had waked up some seconds before Amorelle and had been standing in capacious flannel nightgown and floppy nightcap at her door, listening, when Amorelle flung her bombardments over the stair rail and stabbed the darkness of the hall with her flashlight.

Hannah heard the groping, hurried footsteps downstairs. She knew exactly which way the intruder was moving, and she prepared her ambush hurriedly. By the time the burglar had reached the back door and was about to dash wildly for freedom over the back fence, she was standing at her window just over the back steps with the half gallon of thick white paint mingled with water held at just the perfect angle for action when the precise moment should arrive.

The burglar was in his stocking feet and had not time to retrieve his shoes before his hasty exit. He stubbed his toe on the edge of a hole in the kitchen linoleum, which did not help matters for him. But as he arrived on the step of the kitchen and the cool evening air greeted his heated brow, something else descended upon him. A long, cold stream of water and white paint came dashing over him, trickling down his neck, filling his hair—for his hat had dropped off in the kitchen when he stubbed his toe—and streaming over his quivering, frightened face.

Moreover Hannah let out a yell such as is not often heard on a summer evening when right-minded folks are all abed and asleep.

“Help! Help! Murder! Robbers!” she shouted, and was about to add “Fire!” to the list when she heard a policeman’s whistle far up to the next block and changed the word to “Police! Help! He’s getting away.”

Over the fence went Mr. Pike, hatless and shoeless, dripping, gasping, choking with the paint deluge, leaving a well-defined set of fingerprints and footprints down the garden walk, over the back fence, and a long way down the back alley.

Windows were thrown up all along the street behind the alley; heads were thrust out; cries of “What is it? Police! Help!” and presently the police were on the spot with whistles, and a motorcycle was tearing down the street.

While down the shadowy side of the alley, blinded by paint, stealthily crept the former intruder, pausing only long enough behind a dark hedge to tear off the telltale socks and stuff them in his pocket before he fled by devious ways to refuge in his own lair.

Amorelle came hurriedly back to Hannah’s room and laid a quiet hand on the excited woman’s arm.

“Don’t yell anymore, Hannah! He’s gone! I’ll turn on the lights and go down to speak to the police.”

The doorbell was ringing now, and Amorelle, in her little, dark robe that had seen so much service during the nights of her father’s illness, hurried down, with Hannah in a flaming flower creation of the vintage of “Mother Hubbard” days sweeping protectingly down behind her.

Amorelle told briefly of her awakening and what she had seen, except that brief instant of recognition. The time might have to come for that, too, but if possible she must prevent that man’s name from being connected with hers.

Then it seemed that the house was full of policemen, though in reality there were only two, the rest having followed the white footsteps down the back alley. But Hannah triumphantly led the representatives of the law to the scene of her coup and gave a voluble description of all that occurred from her point of view. Then they went down again to the minister’s study, examined the turned-back rug, threw their mysterious powder here and there trying to get fingerprints.

It was a weird, mysterious business, and to the girl standing shivering in the hall, it all seemed so futile.

She wondered idly what Lemuel Pike could possibly have wanted there in the little, bare study. What could there be that would make it worth his while to risk breaking into a house? She recalled his last words to her father about some objectionable phrase that he wanted rewritten. Could he possibly have come to find a paper? No, that did not make good sense. If he had been borrowing money, as she had decided must have been the case, what possible value could any other paper have? Her weary brain refused to think it out.

She recalled the matter of the desk key, which her father had been searching for just as Lemuel went out the door. Perhaps he thought it might still be around there somewhere. Perhaps he did not notice in the darkness that the desk was gone, and he hoped to find the key and unlock the drawer and discover the receipt that her father would undoubtedly have taken if he loaned the man money. That was it! That sounded plausible. Well, what did it matter! Her father wouldn’t likely have loaned such a man a very large sum, and, anyway, she would rather lose the money than get her name mixed up with Lemuel Pike, especially since Mrs. Brisbane’s foolish interference with her affairs. It only meant that she must hasten her departure from the town.

Eventually the house settled to rest again, Hannah insisting upon bringing her mattress and casting it down before Amorelle’s door.

The night went on; the police searched. They traced the footsteps to the street where Lemuel Pike lived, but there they ended at the foot of a tree. They searched the tree with their flashlights. They even climbed up and explored every branch, but there seemed no possible clue. The street was a perfectly respectable one. There was no apparent reason why any dweller in that street should be suspected of being a house-breaker. Little did they dream that up that very tree Lemuel Pike had disappeared not a half hour before they halted under it, and that he had often disappeared in that very same way after some questionable night excursion. The well-placed trees with their thick foliage told no tale of a man if he cultivated the habits of a squirrel and swung himself silently from branch to branch, straight into his own second-story window. And so that particular night raid, like many others, remained a mystery for the morning papers, much to the relief of the minister’s sad young daughter.

Thereafter, to get done and get away from the town, in spite of all its kindly folk who would gladly have detained her and done for her, became an obsession with Amorelle Dean.

Johnny Brewster came over early that next morning to see if there was anything he could do and heard the whole tale with embellishment from Hannah. Before he left he had arranged to bring his gun and sleep on a cot in the kitchen as long as Amorelle remained, and before night she had several offers of protectors.

Well, at least
, thought the girl, as she went about the harrowing work of breaking up the only home she had known since she was born,
there’s one of Mrs. Brisbane’s suitors that will be out of the running now. Lemuel Pike will never dare to come and propose marriage
.

But she did not know Lemuel Pike.

Late that afternoon there came a letter written in a neat bank clerk’s hand, on most correct stationery, and full of high-sounding phrases. It read: