The Loves of Ambrose

by Margaret Vandercook

Afterward, when Uncle Ambrose discovered that his supper tray held all the dishes he most liked, he did not let his expression betray him, but ate his well-cooked meal peaceably and enjoyably until Elizabeth came to take away his tray, when his feeble hand caught hold of her hard one, trying to give it the rightful pressure.

"I can't," the old maid answered sorrowfully; "it's only because you are sorry for me."

And Uncle Ambrose hesitated. To tell any woman he did not love her, here at the end of his seventy-six years! "I'm growin' powerful fond of you, 'Lizabeth Horton," he hedged, "but ef I'm sorry too, what's the odds? I reckon I'm sorry fer myself and been sorry fer most everybody I've knowed in this world one time or another. But mebbe you kin see things better like this. I'm more'n anxious fer you to look after me till I die and keep me from gittin' too darned lonesome and, moreover, I want to leave you this here cottage when I go away. See here, 'Lizabeth, I've done had some experience with women and I've been thinkin' a lot on what you said to me that evenin' you come over here to dry your tears. I kin see there are some women who kin live 'thout husbands and some that's just got to live 'thout children, but there's some women that ain't able to live 'thout homes of their own. Why, you poor old 'Lizabeth, you'd just pine away and die ef the time ever come when you didn't have a house to keep: it would be worse 'n food starvin', 'cause it would last longer. I ain't no children of my own"—and even now Uncle Ambrose winced at saying it—"and what with selling my interest in the store when Miner went and a remembrance from Peachy I got a tidy sum of money in the bank. So I've got no special call to leave my money to nobody, but I know Pennyrile, and she sure would make it warm fer you ef I willed you my property 'thout makin' you my wife. Give me my answer, 'Lizabeth; I ain't tryin' to bribe you, though I want you to stay by me, but I'm gittin' kind er tired and I ain't said all I've got to say yet."

And here Uncle Ambrose turned his eyes for another time toward Emily's picture with their familiar appeal for light in dark places.

"There is one more request I'm bound to make, but it ain't goin' to hurt you or any female to be sensible."

"Uncle Ambrose," the old maid faltered, her yellow cheeks flushing palely, "ef you're sure you want to marry me I shall be plumb glad. I like to stay here and take care of you, and I don't want to leave you or this house. I'll try my best to do my part."

"Then you listen to me," said the old man, speaking like a grown-up person to a confused child, "and you remember I don't want to hurt your feelin's, but whatsomever cometh I've got to git this out of me."

"What is it, Uncle Ambrose?" Elizabeth inquired anxiously. "I told you I was hopeful to do my part."

Before replying the old face set into beautiful lines of dignity and untarnished faith. "Do you recollect, 'Lizabeth, I told you once that when I died and crossed over the Jerden I was hopin' to spend the life eternal with Em'ly. T'ain't nothin' against little Sarah or Peachy, but you see I married Sarah 'fore I'd met up with Em'ly, and then Peachy she'd kind er staked out an original claim. It won't matter nothin' to Em'ly, but ef the truth be known I ain't no ways easy in my mind 'bout that Bible text I was a-repeatin' over to you. It may be I ain't got the Lord's meanin' exactly clear, whether the marriages made on this earth are goin' to hold good in heaven, so you kin surely see, 'Lizabeth, that there ain't no use in me addin' complications to the future at my time of life."

And here reaching under his pillow Uncle Ambrose drew forth a crumpled sheet of paper torn from a book which deeded his cottage to Elizabeth Horton and five thousand dollars in bank in the event of her becoming his wife.