Monday's mops and pails broke in upon the spell of Amarilly's spiritual
enchantment to some extent, but remembrance of the scenic effects
lingered and was refreshed by the clothes-line of vestal garb which
manifested the family prosperity, and heralded to the neighborhood that
the Jenkins's star was in the ascendant.
"Them Jenkinses," said Mrs. Hudgers, who lived next door, "is orful
stuck up sence they got the sudsin' of them surpluses."
This animadversion was soon conveyed to Amarilly, who instantly and
freely forgave the critic.
"She's old and rheumatic," argued the little girl. "She can't git to go
nowhars, and folks that is shut in too long spiles, jest like canned
goods. Besides, her clock has stopped. Nobody can't go on without no
clock."
Out of pity for the old woman's sequestered life, Amarilly was wont to
relate to her all the current events, and it was through the child's
keen, young optics that Mrs. Hudgers saw life. An eloquent and vivid
description of St. Mark's service was eagerly related.
"I allers thought I'd like to see them Episcopals," she remarked
regretfully. "Ef church air wa'n't so bad fer my rheumatiz, I'd pay
car-fare jest to see it onct. I was brung up Methodist though."
This desire suggested to Amarilly's fertile little brain a way to make a
contribution to John Meredith's pet missionary scheme, whose merits he
had so ardently expounded from the pulpit.
"I'll hev a sacrud concert like the one he said they was goin' to hev to
the church," she decided.
She was fully aware of the sensation created by the Thursday clothes-line
of surplices, and she resolved to profit thereby while the garments
were still a novelty. Consequently the neighborhood was notified that a
sacred concert by a "surplused choir" composed of members of the Jenkins
household, assisted by a few of their schoolmates, would be given a week
from Wednesday night. This particular night was chosen for the reason
that the church washing was put to soak late on a Wednesday.
There was a short, sharp conflict in Amarilly's conscience before she
convinced herself it would not be wrong to allow the impromptu choir to
don the surplices of St. Mark's.
"They wouldn't spile 'em jest awearin' 'em onct," she argued sharply,
for Amarilly always "sassed back" with spirit to her moral accuser.
"'Tain't as if they wa'n't agoin' into the wash as soon as they take 'em
off. Besides," as a triumphant clincher, "think of the cause!"
Amarilly had heard the Boarder and a young socialist exchanging views,
and she had caught this slogan, which was a tempting phrase and adequate
to whitewash many a doubtful act. It proved effectual in silencing the
conscience which Amarilly slipped back into its case and fastened
securely.
She held nightly rehearsals for the proposed entertainment. After the
first the novelty was exhausted, and on the next night there was a
falling off in attendance, so the young, director diplomatically
resorted to the use of decoy ducks in the shape of a pan of popcorn, a
candy pull, and an apple roast. By such inducements she whipped her
chorus into line, ably assisted by Bud, who had profited by his
attendance at St. Mark's.
The Jenkins dwelling was singularly well adapted for a public
performance, as, to use Mrs. Wint's phraseology, "it had no insides."
The rooms were partitioned off by means of curtains on strings. These
were taken down on the night of the concert. So the "settin'-room," the
"bedroom off" and the kitchen became one. Seats were improvised by means
of boards stretched across inverted washtubs.
At seven o'clock on the night set for the concert the audience was
solemnly ushered in by the Boarder. No signs of the performers were
visible, but sounds of suppressed excitement issued from the woodshed,
which had been converted into a vestry.
Presently the choir, chanting a hymn, made an impressive and effective
entrance. To Amarilly's consternation this evoked an applause, which
jarred on her sense of propriety.
"This ain't no show, and it ain't no time to clap," she explained to the
Boarder, who cautioned the congregation against further demonstration.
Flamingus read a psalm in a sing-song, resonant voice, and then Amarilly
announced a hymn, cordially inviting the neighbors to "jine in." The
response was lusty-lunged, and there was a unanimous request for another
tune. After Amarilly had explained the use to which the collection was
to be put, Gus passed a pie tin, while an offertory solo was rendered by
Bud in sweet, trebled tones.
The sacred concert was pronounced a great success by the audience, who
promptly dispersed at its close. While the Boarder was shifting the
curtains to their former positions, and Mrs. Jenkins and Amarilly were
busily engaged in divesting the choir of their costumes, the front door
opened and disclosed a vision of loveliness in the form of Colette.
"I knocked," she explained apologetically to the Boarder, "but no one
heard me. Are the family all away?"
"They are in the woodshed. Walk right out," he urged hospitably.
Colette stepped to the door and, on opening it, gazed in bewilderment at
the disrobing choir.
"These are not St. Mark's choir-boys, are they?" she asked wonderingly.
Mrs. Jenkins felt herself growing weak-kneed. She looked apprehensively
at Amarilly, who stepped bravely to the front with the air of one who
feels that the end justifies the means.
"It was fer him--fer Mr. St. John I done it," she began in explanation,
and then she proceeded to relate the particulars of her scheme and its
accomplishment.
She had but just finished this narrative when suddenly in the line of
her vision came the form of the young rector himself. He had been
ushered out by the Boarder, who was still actively engaged in "redding
up."
"I came to call upon you, for I consider you one of my parishioners
now," he said to Amarilly, his face flushing at the unexpected encounter
with Colette.
Amarilly breathed a devout prayer of thankfulness that the last surplice
had been removed and was now being put to soak by her mother.
Colette's eyes were dancing with the delight of mischief-making as she
directed, in soft but mirthful tones:
"Tell Mr. St. John about your choir and concert."
Amarilly's eyes lowered in consternation. She was in great awe of this
young man whose square chin was in such extreme contradiction to his
softly luminous eyes, and she began to feel less fortified by the
reminder of the "cause."
"I'd ruther not," she faltered.
"Then don't, Amarilly," he said gently.
"Mebby that's why I'd orter," she acknowledged, lifting serious eyes to
his. "You said that Sunday that we wa'n't to turn out of the way fer
hard things."
"I don't want it to be hard for you to tell me anything, Amarilly," he
said reassuringly. "Suppose you show me that you trust me by telling me
about your concert."
So once more Amarilly gave a recital of her plan for raising money for
the mission, and of its successful fulfilment. John listened with
varying emotions, struggling heroically to maintain his gravity as he
heard of the realization of the long-cherished, long-deferred dream of
Mrs. Hudgers.
"And we took in thirty-seven cents," she said in breathless excitement,
as she handed him the contents of the pie tin.
"Amarilly," he replied fervently, with the look that Colette was
learning to love, "you did just right to use the surplices, and this
contribution means more to me than any I have received. It was a sweet
and generous thought that prompted your concert."
Amarilly's little heart glowed with pride at this acknowledgment.
At that moment came Bud, singing a snatch of his solo.
"Is this the little brother that sang the offertory?"
"Yes; that's him--Bud."
"Bud, will you sing it again for me, now?"
"Sure thing!" said the atom of a boy, promptly mounting a soap box.
He threw back a mop of thick black hair, rolled his eyes ceilingward,
and let his sweet, clear voice have full sway.
"Oh, Bud, you darling! Why didn't you tell me he could sing like that,
Amarilly?" cried Colette at the close of the song.
"We must have him in St. Mark's choir," declared Mr. Meredith. "You may
bring him to the rectory to-morrow, Amarilly, and I will have the
choirmaster try his voice. Besides receiving instruction and practice
every week, he will be paid for his singing."
Money for Bud's voice! So much prosperity was scarcely believable.
"Fust the Guild school, Miss King's washing, the surpluses, and now
Bud!" thought Amarilly exuberantly. "Next thing I know, I'll be on the
stage."
"I must go," said Colette presently. "My car is just around the corner
on the next street. John, will you ride uptown with me?"
He accepted the invitation with alacrity. Colette's sidelong glance
noted a certain masterful look about his chin, and there was a warning,
metallic ring in his voice that denoted a determination to overcome all
obstacles and triumph by sheer force of will. She was not ready to
listen to him yet, and, a ready evader of issues, chatted incessantly on
the way to the car. He waited in grim patience, biding his time. As they
neared the turn in the alley, she played her reserve card.
"Henry didn't think it prudent to bring the big car into the Jenkins's
_cul-de-sac,_ so he waited in the next street. I expect father will be
there by this time. We dropped him at a factory near by, where he was to
speak to some United Workmen."
Colette smiled at the drooping of John's features as he beheld her
father ensconced in the tonneau.
"Oh, John! I am glad you were here to protect my little girl through
these byways. I was just on the point of looking her up myself."
When the car stopped at the rectory and Colette bade John good-night,
the resolute, forward thrust was still prominent in his chin.
He went straight to his study and wrote an ardent avowal of his love.
Then he sealed the letter and dispatched it by special messenger. There
would be no more suspense, he thought, for she would have to respond by
a direct affirmation or negation.