Amarilly of Clothes line Alley
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Belle K. Maniates >> Amarilly of Clothes line Alley
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"Colette," said the young minister earnestly, "why do you continually
try to show yourself to me in a false light? It was sweet in you to take
this little girl home in your brougham and to feel an interest in her
improvement."
"Not at all!" protested Colette. "My trend at present may appear to be
charitable, but Amarilly and I have a common interest--a fellow
feeling--that makes me wondrous kind. We both have longings to appear in
public on the stage."
At this sudden challenge, this second lowering of the red flag, John's
face grew stern.
"Amarilly," continued the liquid voice,--"has had more experience in
stage life than I have had. She has commenced at the lowest round of the
dramatic ladder of fame. She scrubs at the Barlow Theatre, and she is
quite familiar with stage lore. Her hero is the man who plays the role
of Lord Algernon in _A Terrible Trial_."
He made no reply, and Colette presently broke the silence.
"Seriously, John," she said practically and in a tone far different from
her former one, "the Jenkins family are poor and most deserving. I am
going to give them some work, and if you would give them a trial on the
church linen, it would help them so much. There was a regular army of
little children on the doorstep, and it must be a struggle to feed them
all. I should like to help them--to give them something--but they seem
to be the kind of people that you can help only by giving them work to
perform. I have learned that true independence is found only among the
poor."
John took a little notebook from his pocket.
"What is their address, Colette?"
She took the book from him and wrote down the street and number.
"Colette, you endeavor to conceal a tender heart--"
"And will you give them--Mrs. Jenkins--a trial?"
"Yes; this week."
"That will make Amarilly so happy," she said, brightening. "I am going
there to-morrow to take them some work, and I will tell Mrs. Jenkins to
send Flamingus--his is the only name of the brood that my memory
retains--for the church laundry."
"He may call at the rectory," replied John, "and get the house laundry
as well."
"That will be good news for them. I shall enjoy watching Amarilly's face
when she hears it."
"And now, Colette, will you do something for me?"
"Maybe. What is it?" she asked guardedly.
"Will you abandon the idea of going on the stage, or studying for that
purpose?"
"Perforce. Father won't consent."
A look of relief drove the trouble from the dark eyes fixed on hers.
"I'll be twenty-one in a year, however," she added carelessly.
John was wise enough to perceive the wilfulness that prompted this
reply, and he deftly changed the subject of conversation.
"About this little girl, Amarilly. We must find her something in the way
of employment. The atmosphere of a theatre isn't the proper one for a
child of that age. Do you think so?"
"Theoretically, no; but Amarilly is not impressionable to atmosphere
altogether. She seems a hard-working, staunch little soul, and all that
relieves the sordidness of her life and lightens the dreariness of her
work is the 'theayter,' as she calls it. So don't destroy her illusions,
John. You'll do her more harm than good."
"Not if I give her something real in the place of what you rightly term
her illusions."
"You can't. Sunday-school would not satisfy a broad-minded little
proletarian like Amarilly, so don't preach to _her_."
He winced perceptibly.
"Do I preach to _you_, Colette? Is that how you regard me--as a prosy
preacher who--"
"No, John. Just as a disturber of dreams--that is all."
"A disturber of dreams?" he repeated wistfully. "It is you, Colette, who
are a disturber of dreams. If you would only let my dreams become
realities!"
"Then, to be paradoxical, your realities might change back to dreams, or
even nightmares. Returning to soapsuds and Amarilly Jenkins, will you go
there with me to-morrow and make arrangements with Mrs. Jenkins for the
laundry work?"
"Indeed I will, Colette, and--"
"Don't look so serious, John. Until that dreadful evening, the last time
you called, you always left your pulpit punctilio behind you when you
came here."
"Colette!" he began in protest.
But she perversely refused to fall in with his serious vein. Chattering
gayly yet half-defiantly, on her face the while a baffling smile, partly
tender, partly amused, and wholly coquettish--the smile that maddened
and yet entranced him--she brought the mask of reserve to his face and
man. At such times he never succeeded in remembering that she was but
little more than a child, heart-free, capricious, and wilful. Despairing
of changing her mood to the serious one that he loved yet so seldom
evoked, he arose and bade her good-night.
When he was in the hall she softly called him back, meeting him with a
half-penitent look in her eyes, which had suddenly become gazelle-like.
"You may preach to me again some time, John. There are moments when I
believe I like it, because no other man dares to do it" "Dares?" he
queried with a smile.
"Yes; dares. They all fear to offend. And you, John, you fear nothing!"
"Yes, I do," he answered gravely, as he looked down upon her. "There is
one thing I fear that makes me tremble, Colette."
But her mood had again changed, and with a mischievous, elusive smile
she bade him go. Inert and musing, he wandered at random through the
lights and shadows of the city streets, with a wistful look in his eyes
and just the shadow of a pang in his heart.
"She is very young," he said condoningly, answering an accusing thought.
"She has been a little spoiled, naturally. She has seen life only from
the side that amuses and entertains. Some day, when she realizes, as it
comes to us all to do, that care and sorrow bring their own sustaining
power, she will not dally among the petty things of life; the wilful
waywardness will turn to winning womanliness."
CHAPTER IV
The next afternoon when Amarilly came home from the theatre, her mother
met her with another burst of information.
"Miss King and the preacher was here. He's agoin' to give us all the
church surpluses to wash and his house-wash, too. Flamingus is to go fer
them to the rectry to-night, and you're to go to Miss King's and get the
waists she has to be did up. She left two car tickets fer you."
"We air jest astubbin' our toes on luck," gasped Amarilly.
"The fust pay from the new washin's shall go fer a new hat and dress fer
you, Amarilly. It's acomin' to you all right. 'Twas you as got this work
fer us."
"No!" was the emphatic reply. "We'll git some more cheers, knives,
spoons, plates, cups, and two more leaves fer the table, so's the
chillern kin all set to table to onct."
"That'll be a hull lot more convenient," admitted Mrs. Jenkins
hopefully. "Co spills things so, and the boys quarrel when you and the
Boarder ain't here to keep peace. It was jest orful this noon. You
wasn't here and the Boarder kerried his dinner. 'Cause Flam put too much
vinegar on Milt's beans, Milt poured it down Flam's neck, and when I
sent him away from the table he sassed me."
"Jiminy!" protested Amarilly indignantly. "I'd make Milt go without his
supper to-night."
"'Tain't his stummick I'm agoin' to punish," said Mrs. Jenkins
sarcastically. "I've laid by a willer switch that'll feel sharper than
the vinegar he wasted. You'd better go to Miss King's right away--and,
Amarilly, mind you ride both ways. It's too far to walk. Don't you sell
the tickets!"
This last prohibitory remark was made in remembrance of Amarilly's
commercial instincts.
When Amarilly was admitted to the basement of her young benefactress's
home a trimly-capped little maid took her to Colette's boudoir.
"Sit down and talk to me, Amarilly. I want to hear more about Lord
Algernon and Mr. Vedder and Pete. Here's a box of chocolate creams that
must be eaten while they are fresh."
Amarilly was slightly awed at first by the luxurious appointments of the
room, but she soon recovered her ease and devoured the novel sweets with
appreciative avidity. Then she proved herself a fascinating raconteur of
the annals of a world unknown to Colette. It was a matter of course to
Amarilly that the leading lady should be supporting an invalid sister;
that the languid Lord Algernon should be sending his savings to his old
mother who lived in the country; that the understudy should sew
industriously through rehearsals and behind the scenes between parts for
her two little fatherless girls; that Pete Noyes should "bank" to buy a
wheeled chair for his rheumatic father; that the villain was "layin' by"
for his parents to come from the Fatherland, and that the company should
all chip in to send the property woman's sick child to the seashore. But
to Colette the homely little stories were vignettes of another side of
life.
"Have you been to the rectory yet, Amarilly?" she asked presently, when
Amarilly's memories of stage life lagged.
"No; Flammy has went fer Mr. St. Mark's things."
"Mr. St. Mark's!"
Colette laughed delightedly.
"I thought you told me that the preacher's name was Mr. St. Marks. You
said mebby you could git his wash fer us."
"No, Amarilly. I did not mean that. St. Mark's is the name of the church
where he officiates. He could never under any conditions be a St. Mark."
"Wat's his name?"
"St. John, of course. And most people call him a rector, but really your
name suits him best. He does preach--sometimes--to me."
At the end of the week Colette again sent for John--to call "on laundry
business"--her little note read.
"I couldn't wait," she said when he came, "to learn how Mrs. Jenkins
pleased you. My waists were most beautifully laundered. She is certainly
a Madonna of the Tubs."
"You have indeed secured a treasure for me, Colette. The linen is
immaculate, and she shall have the laundering of it regularly."
"I am so glad!" exclaimed Colette fervently. "They need it so much, and
they are so anxious to please. Amarilly was so apprehensive--"
John's face had become radiant.
"It is sweet in you to be interested, Colette, and--"
"I wish you would see her," said Colette, ignoring his commendatory
words and voice. "She's an odd little character. I invited her to
luncheon the other day, and the courses and silver never disturbed her
apparently. She watched me closely, however, and followed my moves as
precisely as a second oarsman. By the way, she called you St. Mark. I
know some people consider you and St. Mark's as synonymous, but I
explained the difference. She tells me absorbingly interesting stories
of theatre life--the life behind the scenes. You see the 'scent of the
roses,' John!"
The shadow fell again, but he made no response.
The following Monday the young minister chanced to be in the culinary
precincts of the rectory when Amarilly called for the laundry, none of
the boys having been available for the service.
An instant gleam of recognition came into his kindly eyes.
"You must be Amarilly Jenkins. I have heard very good accounts of you--
that you are industrious and a great help to your mother."
Amarilly looked at him shrewdly.
"_She_ told you," she affirmed positively.
There was but one "she" in the world of these two, and John Meredith
naturally comprehended.
"She's orful good to us," continued Amarilly, "and it was through her,
Mr. St. John, that we got the surpluses."
"It was, indeed, Amarilly; but my name is not St. John. It is John
Meredith."
"She was jest kiddin' me, then!" deduced Amarilly appreciatively. "I
thought at fust as how yer name was St. Mark, and she said you could
never be a St. Mark, that you was St. John. She likes a joke. Mr.
Reeves-Eggleston (he's playin' the part of the jilted man in the new
play this week) says it's either folks as never hez hed their troubles
or them as hez hed more'n their share what laughs at everything, only,
he says, it's diffrent kinds of laughs."
The reference to the play reminded John of a duty to perform.
"Miss King told me, Amarilly, that you want to go on the stage when you
grow up."
"I did plan to go on, but she said when I got eddicated, I might hear of
other things to do--things I'd like better. So mebby I'll change my
mind."
A beautiful smile lightened John's dark eyes.
"She, was right, Amarilly. There _are_ things that would be better for
you to do, and I--we--will try to help you find them."
"Every one gits the stage fever some time," remarked Amarilly
philosophically, "She said so. She said she had it once herself, but
she knew now that there was something she would like better."
His smile grew softer.
"She wouldn't tell me what it was," continued Amarilly musingly. Then a
troubled look came into her eyes.
"Mebby I shouldn't tell you what she says. Flamingus says I talk too
much."
"It was all right to tell me, Amarilly," he replied with radiant eyes,
"as long as she said nothing personal."
Amarilly looked mystified.
"I mean," he explained gently, "that she said nothing of me, nothing
that you should not repeat. I am glad, though, to see that you are
conscientious. Miss King tells me you are to go to the night-school. Do
you attend Sunday-school?"
Amarilly looked apologetic.
"Not reg'lar. Thar's a meetin'-house down near us that we go to
sometimes. Flamingus and me and Gus give a nickel apiece towards gittin'
a malodeyon fer it, but it squeaks orful. 'Tain't much like the
orchestry to the theayter. And then the preacher he whistles every time
he says a word that has an 's' in it. You'd orter hear him say: 'Let us
sing the seventy-seventh psalm.'"
At the succession of the sibilant sounds, John's brown eyes twinkled
brightly, and about his mouth came crinkly, telltale creases of humor.
"And they sing such lonesome tunes," continued Amarilly, "slower than
the one the old cow died on. I was tellin' the stage maniger about it,
and he said they'd orter git a man to run the meetin'-houses that
understood the proper settin's. Everything, he says, is more'n half in
the settin's."
"Amarilly," was the earnest response, "will you come to St. Mark's next
Sunday to the morning service? The music will please you, I am sure, and
there are other things I should like to have you hear."
Amarilly solemnly accepted this invitation, and then went home,
trundling a big cart which contained the surplices and the rectory
laundry.
Colette's remarks, so innocently repeated to him, made John take himself
to task.
"I knew," he thought rapturously, "that she was pure gold at heart. And
it is only her sweet willfulness that is hiding it from me."
That evening he found Colette sitting before an open fire in the
library, her slender little feet crossed before the glowing blaze. She
was in a gentle, musing mood, but at his entrance she instantly rallied
to her old mirth-loving spirit.
"I have made Amarilly's acquaintance," he said. "She is coming to church
next Sunday."
"A convert already! And you will try to snatch poor Amarilly, too, from
her footlight dreams?"
"Colette," he replied firmly, "you can't play a part with me any longer.
You, the real Colette, made it unnecessary for me to remonstrate with
Amarilly on her choice of professions. She is wavering because of your
assurance that there are better things in life for her to engage in."
He was not very tall, but stood straight and stalwart, with the air of
one born to command. At times he seemed to tower above all others.
She regarded him with an admiring look which changed to wonder at what
she read in his eyes. In a flash she felt the strength and depth of his
feeling, but her searching scrutiny caused him to become tongue-tied,
and he assumed the self-conscious mien peculiar to the man not yet
assured that his love is returned. Once more a golden moment slipped
away with elfish elusiveness, and Colette, secure in her supremacy,
resumed her tantalizing badinage.
CHAPTER V
The Jenkins family was immediately summoned in council to discuss
Amarilly's invitation to attend divine service at St. Mark's.
"You air jest more'n hevin' advantages," said Mrs. Jenkins exultingly.
"Fust the matinee, then the Guild, and now St. Mark's is open to you.
But you'd orter hev a few fixin's to go to sech a grand place,
Amarilly."
Amarilly shook her determined little head resolutely.
"We can't afford it," she said decisively. "I'd stay to hum afore I'd
spend anything on extrys now when we're aketchin' up and layin' by."
"'Twould be good bookkeepin' fer you ter go," spoke up Flamingus. "You
see the preacher's givin' us his business, and we'd orter return the
favor and patrynize his church. You've gotter hustle to hold trade arter
you git it these days. It's up to you ter go, Amarilly." Mrs. Jenkins
looked proudly at her eldest male offspring.
"I declare, Flamingus, you've got a real business head on you jest like
your pa hed. He's right, Amarilly. 'Twouldn't be treating Mr. Meredith
fair not ter go, and it's due him that you go right, so he won't be
ashamed of you. I'll rig you up some way."
The costuming of Amarilly in a manner befitting the great occasion was
an all-absorbing affair for the next few days. Finally, by the
combination of Mrs. Jenkins's industry and Amarilly's ingenuity, aided
by the Boarder and the boys, an elaborate toilet was devised and
executed. Milton donated a "shine" to a pair of tan shoes, the gift of
the girl "what took a minor part." Mrs. Jenkins looked a little askance
at the "best skirt" of blue which had shrunk from repeated washings to a
near-knee length, but Amarilly assured her that it was not as short as
the skirts worn by the ballet girls. She cut up two old blouses and
fashioned a new, bi-colored waist bedizened with gilt buttons. The
Boarder presented a resplendent buckle, and Flamingus provided a gawdy
hair-ribbon.
The hat was the chief difficulty. On week days she wore none, but of
course St. Mark's demanded a headgear of some kind, and at last Mrs.
Jenkins triumphantly produced one of Tam o' Shanter shape manufactured
from a lamp mat and adorned with some roses bestowed by the leading
lady. The belligerent locks of the little scrub-girl refused to respond
to advances from curling iron or papers, but one of the neighbors whose
hair was a second cousin in hue to Amarilly's amber tresses, loaned some
frizzes, which were sewed to the brim of the new hat. The problem of
hand covering was solved by Mr. Vedder, as a pair of orange-tinted
gloves had been turned in at the box-office by an usher, and had
remained unclaimed. They proved a perfect fit, and were the supreme
triumph of the bizarre costume.
Not even Solomon in all his glory was arrayed in splendor greater than
that displayed by Amarilly when she set forth on Sunday morning for St.
Mark's. Promptness was ever Amarilly's chief characteristic, and she
arrived long in advance of the ushers. This gave her an opportunity to
sample several pews before finally selecting one whose usual occupants,
fortunately, were out of the city.
The vastness and stillness of the edifice, disturbed now and then by
silken rustle and soft-shod foot were bewildering to Amarilly. She
experienced a slight depression until the vibrating tones of the organ
fell softly upon the air. The harmony grew more subdued, ceased, and was
succeeded by another moment of solemn silence. Then a procession of
white-robed choristers came down the aisle, their well-trained voices
ringing out in carolling cadence.
"Them's the chorus," thought Amarilly.
Entranced, she listened to the service, sitting upright and very still.
The spiritual significance of the music, the massing of foliage and
flowers in the chancel, the white altars with their many lighted
candles, were very impressive to the little wide-eyed worshipper.
"Their settin's is all right," she said to herself critically, "and it
ain't like the theayter. It's--"
A sudden revealing light penetrated the shadows of her little being.
"This is the real thing!" she acknowledged.
There was only one disappointment to mar the perfection. She felt quite
aggrieved that Mr. Meredith--or Mr. St. John as she still called him in
her thoughts--did not "come on" in the first act.
"Mebby he don't hev the leadin' part to-day," she thought
disappointedly, as a callow youth, whose hair was pompadoured and whose
chin receded, began to read the lessons for the day. Amarilly was kept
in action by her effort to follow the lead of the man in front of her.
"It's hard to know jest when to set or stand or pray, but it keeps
things from draggin'," she thought, "and thar's no chanct to git sleepy.
It keeps me jest on the hump without no rayhearsal fer all this scene
shiftin'."
Her little heart quickened in glad relief when the erect form of John
Meredith ascended the pulpit to deliver the sermon.
"That other one was jest the understudy," she concluded.
The sermon, strong, simple, and sweet like John himself, was delivered
in a rich, modulated voice whose little underlying note of appeal found
entrance to many a hard-shell heart. The theology was not too deep for
the attentive little scrubber to comprehend, and she was filled with a
longing to be good--very good. She made ardent resolutions not to "jaw"
the boys so much, and to be more gentle with Iry and Go. Her conscience
kept on prodding until she censured herself for not mopping the corners
at the theatre more thoroughly.
At the conclusion of the sermon the rector with a slight tremor in his
mellifluous voice pronounced the benediction. Amarilly's eyes shone with
a light that Lord Algernon's most eloquent passages could never have
inspired.
The organ again gave forth its rich tones, and a young, fair-haired boy
with the face of a devotee arose and turned toward the congregation, his
face uplifted to the oaken rafters. A flood of sunshine streamed through
the painted window and fell in long slanting rays upon the spiritual
face. The exquisite voice rose and fell in silvery cadence, the soft
notes fluting out through the vast space and reaching straight to
Amarilly's heart which was beating in unison to the music. "Oh," she
thought wistfully, "if Pete Noyes was only like him!"
She responded to the offertory with a penny, which lay solitary and
outlawed on the edge of a contribution plate filled with envelopes and
bank bills. The isolated coin caught the eye of the young rector as he
received the offerings, and his gaze wandered wonderingly over his
fashionable congregation. It finally rested upon the small, eager-eyed
face of his washerwoman's daughter, and a look of angelic sweetness came
into his brown eyes with the thought: "Even the least of these!"
Colette, statuesque and sublime, caught the flash of radiance that
illumined the face of her pastor, and her heart-strings responded with a
little thrill.
There was another fervent prayer in low, pleading tones, after which
followed the recessional, the choir-boys chanting their solemn measures.
Amarilly in passing out saw John, clad in a long, tight-fitting black
garment, standing at the church door.
"He's got another costume fer the afterpiece," she thought admiringly.
"He must be a lightning change artist like the one down to the vawdyveel
that Pete was tellin' of!"
Then two wonderful, heart-throbbing things happened. John took
Amarilly's saffron-clad hand in his and told her in earnest, convincing
tones how glad he was that she had come, and that he should look for her
every Sunday.
"He held up the hull p'rade fer me!" she thought exultingly.
As he was speaking to her his gaze wandered away for a second; in that
infinitesimal space of time there came into his eyes a dazzling flash of
light that was like a revelation to the sharp-eyed little girl, who,
following the direction of his glance, beheld Colette. Then came the
second triumph. Colette, smiling, shook hands with her and praised her
attire.
"Did you like the service, Amarilly?" she whispered. "Was it like the
theatre?"
"It was diffrent," said Amarilly impressively. "I think it's what heaven
is!"
"And did you like the sermon St. John preached?"
Amarilly's lips quivered.
"I liked it so much, I liked him so much, I'd ruther not talk about it."
Colette stooped and kissed the freckled little face, to the utter
astonishment of those standing near and to the complete felicity of John
Meredith, who was a witness of the little scene though he did not hear
the conversation.
Amarilly walked homeward, her uplifted face radiant with happiness.
"The flowers, the lights, oh, it was great!" she thought. "Bud could
sing like that if he was learnt. He couldn't look like that surplused
boy, though. He sorter made me think of Little Eva in the play they give
down to Milt's school. I wish Bud's hair was yaller and curly instead of
black and straight!"
Amarilly's reminiscences next carried her to the look she had seen in
the rector's eyes when he beheld Colette coming out of the church.
"It was the look Lord Algernon tried to give Lady Cecul," she thought,
"only he couldn't do it, 'cause it wasn't in Him to give. And it
couldn't never be in him the same as 't is in Mr. St. John and Miss
King. It ain't in her yet to see what was in his eyes. Some day when she
gits more feelin's, mebby 't will be, though."
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