The next morning Amarilly served Derry's breakfast in heavy-hearted
silence, replying in low-voiced monosyllables to his gay, conversational
advances. She performed her household duties about the studio listlessly
though with conscientious thoroughness. When it came time to prepare
luncheon, Derry called her into the studio.
"Come here to the light, where I can see you best, Amarilly."
Reluctantly she came.
He turned his searching, artist's eyes upon her unsparingly, noting the
violet shadows under the white-lidded eyes, and the hard, almost tragic
lines in the drooping of her mobile mouth. She bore his gaze
unflinchingly, with indrawn breath and clenched hands.
"What is it, Amarilly?" he asked gently. "You will tell me, _nicht
wahr_?"
These two last words were in deference to her new study of German.
At the genuine sympathy in his voice, Amarilly's composure gave way and
there was a rush of tears.
He led her to a divan and sat beside her.
"Yes, of course you will tell me, Amarilly. I knew there was an
emotional side to my practical, little maid, and I noticed at breakfast
that there was something wrong."
"Yes," she replied, with an effort, wiping away the rising tears, "I
will tell you, but no one else. If I told Mr. Vedder, he would not
understand; he would say I must do what was sensible. If I told Mr. St.
John, he would be shocked, and tell me that duty was hard, and that was
why it must be done,--to strengthen. Mrs. St. John would laugh, and say:
'Oh, what a foolish Amarilly!'"
"And what will I say, Amarilly?" he asked interestedly.
"You! Oh, you will understand what I feel, and you will be sorry."
"Then spin away, Amarilly. You'll have my sympathy and help in
everything that makes you feel bad, whether it's right or wrong."
"Oh, Mr. Derry, we are all going away--way off to the country--to live
on a farm!"
"Amarilly, you little city brat! You'd be a misfit on a farm. Tell me
what has sent the Jenkins family into the open."
Faithfully Amarilly enumerated the pros and cons of the agricultural
venture. When she had concluded her narrative, Derry, to her surprise
and sorrow, looked positively jubilant.
"And you don't want to live in the country, eh, Amarilly?"
"No, Mr. Derry," she protested. "I don't. I have never been there, but I
know the woods and the fields and--all that--must be beautiful--in
patches--but I couldn't bear it all the time--not to see all the bright
and white lights at night and the hurry, and the people, and the
theatres. No! I'd rather be the poorest little speck here than to own
and live on the biggest farm in the world."
He laughed delightedly.
"Oh, Amarilly, you little gamin! You have the right idea, though. We
don't want anything, however perfect it may be, all the time. We want it
just 'in patches'--as you say. You'll love the country with your whole
heart and soul when you come to see it if you know that you can leave
it. But this is a big change in your affairs, and we must talk it over.
We'll go to Carter's again for luncheon. Take off your apron and cap.
You won't have to fix your hair this time. It's even more beautiful than
it was then. Your frock, if it is cheap and plain, is artistic in cut
and color."
Amarilly felt cheered in spite of herself at his exuberant manner, but
burst into tears when on leaving the studio he casually remarked:
"So this is almost the last of your work here! I can never hope to get
such another housekeeper as you. I shall have to eat out again."
At sight of her grief he took hold of her arm almost roughly.
"Amarilly, you little goose, do you suppose I am going to let you be
exiled to a farm and lapse into the vernacular of the Boarder? Now, buck
up and trust to the judgment and affection of your twin brother."
Amarilly, wondering but hopeful, "bucked up," and they walked in silence
to Carter's, where Derry ordered a private dining-room and luncheon.
Then:
"Now, listen my child, and you shall hear, not of the midnight ride of
Paul Revere, but of the sad story of the life of your twin brother. My
parents died when I was too young to grieve for them. They are only a
faint memory. I had a cold-blooded, sensible guardian who put me into a
boys' school, from which I went to college, and then for a year in
Paris. He didn't let me know the amount of my inheritance. Consequently
I really worked and worked hard at the only thing I cared for and formed
no extravagant tastes. Neither was I courted and flattered by parasites.
"On my return from Paris, a year before I met you, I came into my
mother's fortune, and recently I have received the one left me by my
father. Having been brought up to live a comparatively simple life, in
the belief that I would be dependent on my own exertions, I have more
money than I know what to do with as yet. I have no one, not even a
fifth cousin, to be interested in. I have any number of acquaintances,
but no really intimate friends, so I have no one to help me spend and
enjoy my money.
"There was something about you, Amarilly, that appealed to me that first
day you came up to the studio. It couldn't have been your looks, for
aside from your hair, your expressive eyes, and your hands; you are
quite ordinary looking; but something about you amused me, then
interested me, and, now fascinates me. I have thought about it a good
deal, and have come to the conclusion that it is your direct naturalness
and earnestness. I have really come to feel as if you were a sort of a
younger sister of mine. I have done a very little for you in the way of
education, and I have intended to do more. The reason I have been slow
about it was--for reasons. I have discussed your future with the
Merediths a great many times.
"What I wished to do was to put you in the best girls' school I could
find and when you were finished there, to send you abroad, and give you
the same advantages that a sister of mine would have. But as I say, I
hesitated. It didn't seem exactly wise to separate you from your family,
surround you with different environments and then have you come home
to--the alley. I know your loyal little heart would never waver in its
affection for them, but such a decided change would not be wise.
"Now, you see, this farm business simplifies things wonderfully. With
the thrift and industry of your brothers and the Boarder I can easily
see the farm is going to be a prosperous undertaking, and by the time
you are finished--say five years--for Miss Varley tells me you are quite
up with the girls of your age in your studies, they will have a
substantial country home which you will enjoy immensely between times.
You will find that a country home, however humble, is not sordid like an
obscure home in the city. So next week, Amarilly, or as soon as Mrs.
Meredith can fit you out properly, you will be packed off to an ultra-
smart school. There will be one term this year, but I think you should
remain through the summer vacation and have private tutoring."
The waiter entered with the first course. When he had again gone out,
Amarilly looked up at Derry, her eyes full of a yearning that touched
him.
"It would be lovely, Mr. Derry. Too lovely to happen, you know."
"There, Amarilly," he said with a combination of frown and smile, "there
it is again--your contradiction of eyes and mouth--the one of a gazelle;
the other, of a mule. I'll answer your objections before you make them,
for it is determined that you are to go."
The look he had ascribed to Amarilly's mouth came into the forward
thrust of his chin.
"First, you think you are too proud and independent to accept. From your
viewpoint it seems a good deal to do. From mine, proved by my bank
account, it is an absurdly small thing to do, but if you are truly
grateful for what you are pleased to think I have done for you, you will
let me do this, because you feel sorry for me that I am so alone in the
world. And St. John, himself, would tell you it was your duty to make
the most of your talents and opportunities. You can also do a little
charity work in keeping me straight, for you see, Amarilly, I am going
to Paris for two years to study, and I will have an incentive to work
and not play too hard if I know I have a little sister over here in
school who would be sorry if her brother went wrong and didn't get to be
a great artist. So for your sake, and for my sake--"
"But there's ma's sake," she said wistfully. "The Boarder says woman's
work on the farm is hard."
"There's the Boarderess and Co--"
"Lily Rose is not strong and doesn't know much about farm work, and Co's
only a kid."
"Well, I hadn't finished. You have an interest in the farm as one of the
syndicate, and you have some money saved."
"Yes," admitted Amarilly bewildered, not following his train of thought.
"Well, you won't need that now, and it can go towards a woman to help,--
a hired girl in country vernacular--during the busy seasons. And you can
go home summers. Every week you are to write me a long letter and tell
me about yourself and them."
Amarilly was gazing into space, and in silence he watched the odd,
little signs of conflict. It was the same sort of a struggle, only
harder and more prolonged, that she had passed through two years before
at the theatre when her untutored conscience bade her relinquish her
seat. Suddenly her countenance became illumined.
"I am going to do it, Mr. Derry! I am going to let you send me to
school, and abroad and wherever you think best."
THE END