Amarilly of Clothes line Alley
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Belle K. Maniates >> Amarilly of Clothes line Alley
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CHAPTER XVI
There was one little ominous cloud in the serene sky of Mrs. Jenkins's
happiness. She had nothing suitable for the occasion of the organ
recital in the way of wearing apparel.
"I feel as if gloves was due you, Bud," she lamented, "but I kin't
afford 'em. I guess I kin put my hands under my mantilly, though, and
folks won't know."
"She'd orter hev 'em, and she'd orter hev a new hat, too," reflected
Bud, and his song became a requiem. He manfully resolved to sacrifice
his future to present needs and curtail the laundry fund. After some
meditation he called upon the bishop, and asked if he might have an
advance of half the amount he would receive for his solo.
The bishop readily assented, but sought the reason for the request.
"My mother is comin' to the recital, but she ain't got no fixin's. I'm
goin' to buy her a hat."
"I am glad you think of your mother, my lad, but it would be well to let
some older person select it for you. My housekeeper--"
Bud's refusal was emphatic. He knew the kind of hat his mother wanted,
and he had noted her quickly suppressed look of disappointment at the
sombre hat donated by Mrs. Hudgers on the day of the police-court
attendance.
Upon receiving the five dollars he went directly to the Fashion
Emporium, where the windows were filled with a heterogeneous assortment
of gayly trimmed hats, marked enticingly with former and present prices.
"I want a hat kivered with flowers," he announced.
"Who for?" asked the young saleswoman.
"For my mother."
"How would you like a nice flower toque like this?" displaying a
headgear of modest forget-me-nots.
"That's all faded. Ain't you got any red flowers? If you haven't, I know
a store where they keep 'em."
The girl instantly sacrificed her ideas of what was fitting to the
certainty of a sale, and quickly produced a hat of green foliage from
which rose long-stemmed, nodding red poppies, "a creation marked down to
three-ninety-eight," she informed him.
"That's the kind! I'll take it and a pair of white gloves, too, if
you've got some big ones fer a dollar."
Bud hastened home with his purchases. His mother was quite overcome by
the sight of such finery.
"I never thought to be dressed up again," she exclaimed on the eventful
night, "No one has bought me nuthin' to wear sence your pa died. I feel
like I was some one outen a book."
The entire family, save Iry, who was put to bed at a neighbor's, went to
the recital. The Boarder took Lily Rose, who was quite flustered at her
first appearance with the family.
John and Colette occupied a pew directly opposite the family. Mr. Vedder
and Pete were also in attendance.
When the bishop came from the vestry and walked down the aisle to his
pew, his eyes fell upon the worn, seamed face of Bud's mother, the weary
patient eyes in such odd contrast to the youthful turban with its
smartly dancing flowers. Something stirred in his well-regulated heart,
and he carefully wiped his glasses.
At the signal from the choirmaster for the solo of the oratorio, Bud
arose. An atom of a boy he looked in the vast, vaulted chancel, and for
the first time he knew fear at the thought of singing. It was a terrible
thing, after all, to face this sea of staring, dancing people. As
lightning reaches to steel, the gay poppies nodding so nervously above
his mother's white, anxious face sought the courage place within, and
urged him on. He felt himself back in Clothes-line Park, alone with his
mother and the blue sky.
The little figure filled itself with a long, deep breath. The high,
clear note merged into one with the notes of the chorus. It touched the
tones of the accompaniment in harmony true, and swelled into grand,
triumphant music.
"He looks like he did arter the fever," thought Amarilly anxiously.
When he came down the aisle with the choir, the ethereal look had left
his face, and he was again a happy little boy. He gave his mother a gay
nod, and bestowed a wink upon the Boarder. He waited outside and the
family wended their way homeward.
There had not been time to bring in the clothes before leaving, but a
willing neighborhood had guarded the premises for them, so Clothes-line
Park was shrouded in a whiteness that looked ghostly in the moonlight.
They made quite an affair of the evening in honor of Bud's song, and
their introduction to Lily Rose. There were fried sausages, coffee,
sandwiches, and pork cake.
"The organist told me," announced Bud at supper, "that he was agoin' to
train my voice, and I could be soloist at Grace Church and git five
dollars a Sunday, and after a while I could git ten."
"You'll be a millynaire," prophesied Bobby in awed tones.
"Guess we'll be on Easy Street now," shouted Cory.
"We won't be nuthin' of the kind," snapped Amarilly. "It's agoin' to all
be banked fer Bud."
"I guess," said Bud, in his quiet, little old-man way, "I'm the one to
hev the say. I'm agoin' to give ma two dollars a week and bank the
rest."
Meanwhile John was having an uncomfortable time as he walked home with
Colette. He had started on the trail of the surplice the day before. The
"tenner" and the young ladies who had given the tableaux had been
interviewed, but in neither case had the mysterious pocket been
discovered. To-day he had visited the Beehive, but no one in the store
had paid any attention to the pocket, or knew of its existence. Colette
remained obdurate to his pleadings. She assumed that he was entirely to
blame for the loss, and seemed to take a gleeful delight in showing him
how perverse and wilful she could be. To-night he found himself less
able than usual to cope with her caprices, so he began to talk of
impersonal matters and dwelt upon the beauties of Bud's voice, and the
astonishing way in which it had developed.
She admitted that Bud's voice was indeed wonderful, but maintained that
Mrs. Jenkins's poppy hat and white gloves had been far surpassing in the
way of surprises.
"Did you ever, John, see anything more shoutingly funny?"
"It wasn't funny, Colette," he said wistfully, and he proceeded to
relate the history of the hat as he had heard it from the bishop that
day.
[Illustration: To-night he found himself less able than usual to cope
with her caprices]
And though in the depths of her heart Colette was touched by the pathos
of the purchase, she must needs tread again the feminine labyrinth
instead of following the more natural and open path.
"Who was the young girl with the Boarder?" John next vouchsafed.
"Why, Lily Rose, of course. The Lily for whom he 'sot for his likeness
in the surplus.' That awful surplice," she burst forth in irritation at
the mere mention of the unfortunate word. "Some of these people must
have it. John, you don't half try to find it."
"I am following out the list in order," he assured her. "I shall go to
see Mrs. Hudgers to-morrow."
"And the next one to her," reminded Colette, "is Derry Phillips,
Amarilly's new benefactor. She told me to-day that she had a note from
him, asking her to begin work at the studio in a few days."
"I have a double duty in my call there," said John didactically. "If he
is like some of the young artists I know, his studio will hardly be a
proper place for Amarilly."
"As it happens," returned Colette coldly, "Derry Phillips, for all his
nonsense, is reported to be a true gentleman; but it would make no
difference with Amarilly if he were not. Her inherent goodness would
counteract the evil of any atmosphere. She can take care of his rooms
until she is a little older. Then she can become a model."
"Colette!" he exclaimed protestingly.
"Why not?" she returned. "Why shouldn't Amarilly be a model, or go on
the stage? Neither place would be below her station in life."
John sought refuge in utter silence which admonished and exasperated
Colette far more than any reproof would have done.
"You might as well go, if you have nothing to say," she remarked
stiffly, as he lingered in the portico, evidently expecting an
invitation to enter.
"I have _too_ much to say, Colette."
Her sidelong glance noted his dejection, and her flagging spirits rose
again.
"Too much, indeed, when you are so critical of what I say!"
"Colette, hear me!"
"No, I won't listen--never when you preach!"
"I don't mean to preach, Colette, but don't you think--"
"Good night, John," she said, smiling.
"Good night!" he echoed dolefully, but making no move to leave.
"Colette, will you never tell me?"
"Yes," she replied unexpectedly, with a dancing light in her beautiful
eyes.
"When?"
"When you restore to me what was in the pocket."
CHAPTER XVII
Jason never sought the Golden Fleece with more unwearying perseverance
than John displayed in the pursuit of the lost article which Colette
refused to describe. His calls of inquiry didn't mean merely putting the
question politely and taking his departure after receiving an answer. It
meant, in the case of Mrs. Hudgers, a martyr's test of patience in
listening to the devious and manifold routes taken by her rheumatic
pains; a rehearsal of the late lamented Hallie's idiosyncracies; the
details of his last illness; his death; and his wearing of the surplice
at the obsequies.
Throughout her harangue he preached patience unto himself and remembered
that she was an old woman, desolate in her "lone lornness," so he
counselled not, neither did he pray, but comforted her with the
gentleness of voice and speech that won him a fond place in her memory
for all time.
"No," she assured him decisively, as in departing he reminded her of his
original question, "I didn't go fer to look in no pockit. I didn't
suppose them things had pockits."
Then the scene shifted to Derry Phillips's studio, and this visit was
fraught with more difficulties, for there was the case of Amarilly which
must be approached delicately and with subtlety.
After stating his errand concisely and receiving assurance that the
pocket had not been examined, but that the model should be interviewed
by him, John still lingered.
"It's very kind in you to give employment to Amarilly, Mr. Phillips."
Derry shook his head.
"I am the one to be congratulated, Mr. Meredith. I really feel
apologetic to Amarilly for accepting her services. They are so
conscientiously and faithfully rendered that I feel she should be given
a higher scope of work than she can find here. She is an honest, amusing
little soul, and if by giving her employment I can encourage her desire
to be industrious and earn something, I am very glad of the opportunity
to do so."
This was a long and serious observation for the gay-hearted Derry to
make, but he shrewdly fathomed the pastoral duty underlying the
seemingly casual remark.
John's keen perception recognized the sincerity in the ring of the
pleasant young voice, and he was quite won by the boyish directness. An
instinctive confidence moved him to extend the right hand of trust and
fellowship.
"You have been instructive as well as benevolent," he remarked
smilingly. "Two of Amarilly's errors of speech have been eradicated."
The young Artist flushed in slight confusion, and then with a half-
embarrassed laugh, he replied lightly: "Amarilly gave full measure of
correction in return."
Responding to the nameless something in John that so insistently and
irresistibly invited confidence, he related the little incident of the
luncheon and her request in regard to temperate orders in the future.
"And I don't mean to say," he replied with winning frankness, "that it
was merely the request of a little scrub-girl that has kept me temperate
through two months of vacation and temptation, but the guileless
suggestion was the spark that fired the flame of a dormant desire to
change--certain conditions."
John again extended his hand, this time in a remorseful spirit of
apology.
Derry partially understood.
"Amarilly has ardently interested friends," he observed whimsically.
"There was one Vedder, a solemn young German, here to-day in my little
maid's interest."
John's call upon the sable-hued preacher, Brother Washington, also
demanded strategic approach. The question of pockets must be delicately
handled lest any reflection be cast upon the integrity of the race, and
their known penchant for pockets.
Brother Washington's sympathies were at once enlisted, however, when he
scented a romance, for John became more confidential in this than in any
of his prior visitations, in his desire to propitiate. But his search
was fruitless here as elsewhere, and he went away convinced that Brother
Washington had not tampered with the pocket.
He went on to the house of the Reverend James Woodville, who had
performed the marriage ceremony at the nuptials of Mrs. Jimmels, nee
Hubbleston. In this instance also no pocket had been discovered in the
garment, so John wended his discouraged way to the office of the Barlow
Theatre.
Mr. Vedder was likewise surprised to learn that surplices possessed
pockets.
The young rector's face brightened at the next name on his list--Pete
Noyes. Of course a boy and a pocket would not long remain unacquainted.
Again he was doomed to disappointment. Pete's dismay when he learned
that there had been an overlooked pocket was convincingly genuine.
"You see," he explained, "I wore it over my pants, of course, and I had
the pockets in them, so I didn't look for no more."
Pete escorted the rector to the "Vawdyville," and by good fortune the
clerical impersonator in the sketch was still on the board, though in a
different act. He instantly and decidedly disclaimed all knowledge of a
pocket.
"It's like that game," grinned Pete. "Button, button, who's got the
button?"
"Yes," agreed John, with a sigh, "only in this case I fear I shall
continue to be 'it.'"
The brakeman, when he came in from his run, was located and he joined in
the blockade that was conspiring against John's future happiness.
The clothes-line thief was very sensitive on the subject, and felt
greatly aggrieved that he should be accused of picking his own pocket,
for he protested that he had "found" the garment. The fancied
insinuation indeed was so strongly resented that John wondered if it
might not be a proverbial case of "hit birds flutter."
Neither police nor court of justice had examined the pocket; nor had
they been aware of the existence of one. The bishop could throw no light
on the missing article, and this call ended the successless tour of
investigation.
"It was truly a profitable investment for the Jenkins family," thought
John, "but a sorry one for me."
Having now wended his weary and unavailing way into all the places
listed, John made his final report to Colette who remained adamant in
her resolve.
"Of course some of those people did find it," she maintained. "It stands
to reason they must have done so, and it is up to you now to find out
which one of them is the guilty person."
"How can I find that out, Colette?"
"How? Anyhow!" she replied, her mien betraying great triumph at her
powers of logic.
"It must be found!" she asserted with a distinct air of finality. "And
until it is found--"
She stopped abruptly.
"Was it of value? No, I am not trying to find out what it was since you
don't wish me to know, but if I knew its value, it might help me to
decide who would be the most likely to have a motive for taking it. But
my belief is that the article slipped from the pocket and is lost."
"It must be found then" she persisted obstinately.
John went home to ponder over his hopeless task. It remained for
Amarilly with her optimistic spirit to cheer him.
"It'll turn up some place whar you never looked fer it and when you
ain't thinkin' nuthin' about it," she asserted believingly. "Lost things
allers do."
Despite her philosophy she was greatly distressed over the disappearance
of the mysterious article whose loss was keeping John so unhappy. She
ransacked the house from the cellar to the Boarder's room, but found no
trace of it.
"I wonder what it was," she mused.
"Mebby Miss King dreamt she put something in there, and when could she
have done it anyhow? Mebby she give him a present, and he slipped it in
there and fergot to take it out when he sent it to us. But then it would
have come out in the wash. She don't seem to feel so bad as he does--
jest sorter stubborn about it."
The members of the household were put through the third degree, but each
declared his innocence in the matter.
"'Twas most likely Iry took it," said Cory, who found the baby a
convenient loophole for any accusations, "and most likely he hez
swallered it."
Gus persisted in his oft-repeated statement, that there was nothing in
the pocket when it was hung up during quarantine. This assurance was
conveyed to Colette by John, who hoped she might find solace in the
thought that none of the renters could have had it, if this were true,
but to his chagrin she found in his information an implied reflection on
her veracity.
"Colette," he said whimsically, "only three persons connected with this
affair have taken my remarks as personal, you, Brother Washington, and
the thief."
With this remark John, despairing of his ability to fathom the mystery
of the article or to follow the caprices of Colette, dropped the matter
completely.
CHAPTER XVIII
At half past eight on the morning indicated, Amarilly's ring at the door
of the studio was answered by Derry, whose face was covered with lather.
"Hello, Amarilly!" he exclaimed heartily, extending his hand in genial
comradeship. "I am glad to see you again. Been pretty well through the
summer? Well, come on into the butler's pantry, and see what you can do
in a coffee way while I finish shaving."
Amarilly had been receiving instruction in domestic science, including
table service, at the Guild school. Colette, interested in the studio
work, had provided some minute muslin aprons and a little patch of linen
for the head covering of the young waitress, advising her that she must
wear them while serving breakfast. So when Derry emerged from his
dressing-room, a trimly equipped little maid stood proudly and anxiously
awaiting him.
"Why, bless your heart, Amarilly! I feel really domesticated. You look
as natty as a new penny, and the little white cap is great on your hair.
I see you have remembered how to fix it."
"Thank you, Mr. Derry, but please sit down while your coffee is hot."
"'Deed I will, and if it tastes as good as it smells, I shall raise your
remuneration."
He pronounced the coffee delicious, the grapefruit fixed to his liking,
the toast crisp, and the eggs boiled just to the right consistency.
"And have you had breakfast, Amarilly?"
"Yes, Mr. Derry, at half past five."
"Jiminy! you should be ready for another. Now talk to me while I eat.
Tell me about your reverend friend who was so daffy on the subject of
pockets. Has he located any yet?"
Amarilly looked troubled.
"Miss King said I wa'n't to talk to you while I was serving."
"Tell Miss King with Mr. Phillips' compliments that artists are not
conventional, and that you and I are not in the relation to each other
of master and maid. We are good friends, and quite _en famille_. You are
such a fine cook, I think I shall have you serve me luncheon at one
o'clock. Can you?" "Oh, yes; I should love to, Mr. Derry."
"I'll stock the larder, then. No; I can't be bothered, and I'd feel too
much like a family man if I went about marketing. I'll give you _carte
blanche_ to order what you will."
"What's that, Mr. Derry?"
"Good! We mustn't neglect your education. I am glad you asked me. You
might have always supposed it a breakfast-food."
He proceeded to explain elaborately what the words meant, and then asked
her if she had remembered her previous lesson.
"Yes; ain't you--goin'--"
"Stop right there. Your next word to be eliminated is 'ain't.' You must
say 'aren't' or 'isn't.' And you must remember to put 'g' on the end of
every word ending in 'ing.' Don't let me hear you say 'goin', again,
I'll teach you one new word every day now. You see the measure of a maid
is her pure English."
Amarilly looked distressed.
"What's the matter, Amarilly? Don't you want to learn to speak
properly?"
"Yes, I do, Mr. Derry; but Miss King--she don't want me to speak
diff'rent. She likes to hear me talk ignorant, and she said she was
afeard you'd make me brom--"
"Brom?" he repeated.
"There was some more to it, but I fergit."
"Bromidic," he said triumphantly, after an instant's pondering. "You can
never under any circumstances be that, and I shall develop your
imagination and artistic temperament at the same time. Miss King is
selfish to wish to keep you from cultivating yourself for the purpose of
furnishing her entertainment. By the way, I am to meet her to-night at a
dinner, and I think we shall have a mutual subject for conversation. I
must get to work, now. Clear away the dishes. And finish the rest of
this toast and coffee. It would be wicked to waste it."
Amarilly substituted a work apron for the little white covering, and was
soon engaged in "redding."
At eleven o'clock the place was in perfect order, and she went into the
studio where Deny was at work.
"Shall I go get the things fer lunch?"
"Luncheon, if you please, Amarilly. I like that word better. It seems to
mean daintier things. Here's a five-dollar bill. Get what you consider
proper for a simple little home luncheon, you know. Nothing elaborate."
Amarilly, feeling but not betraying her utter inability to construct the
menu for a "simple little home luncheon," walked despondently down the
street.
"The Boarder," she reflected, "takes bread and meat and hard biled eggs
when they ain't--aren't too high, and pie when we hev it."
Some vague instinct of the fitness of things warned her that this would
not be a suitable repast for Derry. Then a light shone through her
darkness.
"I'll telephone Miss Vail," she decided.
So she called up her teacher at the Guild, and explained the situation.
She received full instructions, made her purchases, and went back to the
studio.
At one o'clock she again garbed herself in cap and apron and called
Derry to a luncheon which consisted of bouillon, chops, French peas,
rolls, a salad, and black tea served with lemon.
"Amarilly," he announced solemnly, "you are surely the reincarnation of
a chef. You are immediately promoted from housemaid to housekeeper with
full charge over my cuisine, and your wages doubled."
"And that's going some for one day!" Amarilly gleefully announced to the
family circle that night.
Her teacher, greatly interested and gratified at her pupil's ability to
put her instruction to practical use and profit, made out on each Monday
a menu for the entire week. She also gave her special coaching in
setting table and serving, so Derry's domestic life became a thing of
pride to himself and his coterie of artists. He gave little luncheons
and studio teas in his apartments, Amarilly achieving great success in
her double role of cook and waitress.
Her work was not only profitable financially, but it developed new
tastes and tendencies. Every day there was the new word eagerly grasped
and faithfully remembered. "Fer," "set," "spile," "orter," and the like
were gradually entirely eliminated from her vocabulary. Unconsciously
she acquired "atmosphere" from her environment. In her spare moments
Amarilly read aloud to Derry, while he painted, he choosing the book at
random from his library.
"I want to use you for a model this afternoon," he remarked one day as
she was about to depart. "Braid your hair just as tight as you can, the
way you had it the first day you came. Put on your high-necked, long-
sleeved apron, and get it wet and soapy as it was that first day, and
then come back to the studio with your scrubbing brush and pail."
Amarilly did as she was bidden with a reluctance which the artist,
absorbed in his preparations for work, did not notice.
"Yes; that's fine," he said, glancing up as she came to him. "Now get
down here on your knees by the--what kind of boards did you call them,
Amarilly? Mopboards? Yes, that was it. Now try and put your whole mind
on the memory of the horror you felt at the accumulation of dirt on that
first day, and begin to scrub. Turn your head slightly toward me, tilted
just a little--so--There, that's fine! Keep that position just as long
and just as well as you possibly can."
Derry began to paint, mechanically at first, and then as he warmed to
his subject and became interested in his conception, with rapidity and
absorption.
"There!" he finally exclaimed, "you can rest now! This may be my chef-
d'oeuvre, after all, Amarilly. Won't you be proud to be well hung in the
Academy and have a group constantly before your picture. Why, what's the
matter, child," springing to her side, "tears? I forgot it was your
first experience in posing. Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"
"I wan't tired," she half sobbed.
"Well, what is it? Tell me."
"I'm afeerd you'll laugh at me."
"Not on your life! And your word for to-day, Amarilly, is afraid.
Remember. Never _afeerd_."
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