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.