Chapter 9

The surplice, carefully laundered after the funeral, was ready for new fields of labor. The tenor, first patron of Amarilly's costuming establishment, was wont to loiter in the studio of an artist he knew and relate his about-town adventures. This artist was interested in the annals of the little scrub-girl and her means of livelihood.

"I have in mind," he said musingly, "a picture of a musician, the light to be streaming through a stained window on his uplifted head as he sits at an organ."

"The Lost Chord?" inquired the tenor.

"Nothing quite so bromidic as that," laughed the artist. "I have my model engaged, and I had intended to have you borrow a surplice for me, but you may ask your little customer to rent me her gown for a couple of days."

On receipt of this request delivered through the medium of the ticket- seller, Amarilly promptly appeared at the studio. She was gravely and courteously received by the artist, Derry Phillips, an easy-mannered youth, slim and supple, with dark, laughing eyes. When they had transacted the business pertaining to the rental of the surplice, Amarilly arose from her chair with apparent reluctance. This was a new atmosphere, and she was fascinated by the pictures and the general air of artistic disarrangement which she felt but could not account for.

"'Tain't exactly the kind of place to tidy," she reflected, "but it needs cleaning turrible."

"Do you like pictures?" asked the young artist, following her gaze. "Stay a while and look at them, if you wish."

Amarilly readily availed herself of this permission, and rummaged about the rooms while Derry pursued his work. Upon the completion of her tour of inspection, he noticed a decided look of disapproval upon her face.

"What is the matter, Miss Jenkins? Aren't the pictures true to life?" he inquired with feigned anxiety.

"The picters is all right," replied Amarilly, "but--"

"But what?" he urged expectantly.

"Your rooms need reddin' up. Thar's an orful lot of dust. Yer things will spile."

"Oh, dust, you know, to the artistic temperament, is merely a little misplaced matter."

"'Tain't only misplaced. It's stuck tight," contended Amarilly.

"Dear me! And to think that I was contemplating a studio tea to some people day after to-morrow, I suppose it really should be 'red up' again. Honestly though, I engage a woman who come every week and clean the rooms."

"She's imposed on you," said Amarilly indignantly. "She's swept the dirt up agin the mopboards and left it thar, and she hez only jest skimmed over things with a dust-cloth. It ain't done thorough."

"And are you quite proficient as a _blanchisseuse?"_

Amarilly looked at him unperturbed.

"I kin scrub," she remarked calmly.

"I stand rebuked. Scrubbing is what they need. If you will come to-morrow morning and put these rooms in order, I will give you a dollar and your midday meal."

Amarilly, well satisfied with her new opening, closed the bargain instantly.

The next morning at seven o'clock she rang the studio bell. The artist, attired in a bathrobe and rubbing his eyes sleepily, opened the door.

"This was the day I was to clean," reminded Amarilly reprovingly.

"To be sure. But why so early? I thought you were a telegram."

"Early! It's seven o'clock."

"I still claim it's early. I have only been in bed four hours."

"Well, you kin go back to bed. I'll work orful quiet."

"And I can trust you not to touch any of the pictures or move anything?"

"I'll be keerful," Amarilly assured him. "Jest show me whar to het up the water. I brung the soap and a brush."

The artist lighted a gas stove, and, after carefully donning a long- sleeved apron, Amarilly put the water on and began operations. Her eyes shone with anticipation as she looked about her.

"I'm glad it's so dirty," she remarked. "It's more interestin' to clean a dirty place. Then what you do shows up, and you feel you earnt your money."

With a laugh the artist returned to his bedroom, whence he emerged three hours later.

"This room is all cleaned," announced Amarilly. "It took me so long 'cause it's so orful big and then 'twas so turrible dirty."

"You must have worked like a little Trojan. Now stop a bit while I prepare my breakfast."

"Kin you cook?" asked Amarilly in astonishment.

"I can make coffee and poach eggs. Come into my butler's pantry and watch me."

Amarilly followed him into a small apartment and was initiated into the mysteries of electric toasters and percolators.

He tried in vain to induce her to share his meal with him, but she protested.

"I hed my breakfast at five-thirty. I don't eat agin till noon."

"Oh, Miss Jenkins! You have no artistic temperament or you would not cling to ironclad rules."

"My name's Amarilly," she answered shortly. "I ain't old enough to be 'missed' yet."

"I beg your pardon, Amarilly. You seem any age," he replied, sitting down to his breakfast, "You are not too old, then, for me to ask what your age is--in years?"

"I jest got into my teens."

"Thirteen. And I am ten years older. When is your birthday?"

"It's ben. It was the fust of June."

"Why, Amarilly," jumping up and holding out his hand, "we are twins! That is my birthday."

"And you are twenty-three."

"Right you are. That is my age at the present moment. Last night I was far older, and to-morrow, mayhap, I'll be years younger."

"Be you a Christian Science?" she asked doubtfully.

"Lord, no, child! I am an artist. What made you ask that?"

"'Cause they don't believe in age. Miss Jupperskin told me about 'em. She's workin' up to it. But I must go back to my work."

"So must I, Amarilly. My model will be here in a few moments to don your surplice. If you want to clean up my breakfast dishes you may do so, and then tackle the bedroom and the rest of the apartment."

Three hours later, Amarilly went into the studio. The model had gone, and the artist stood before his easel surveying his sketch with approval.

"This is going to be a good picture, Amarilly. The model caught my idea. There is some fore--"

"Mr. Phillips!"

"My name is Derry. I am too young to be 'mistered.'"

There was no response, and with a smile he turned inquiringly toward her. There was a wan little droop about the corners of her eyes and lips that brought contrition to his boyish heart.

"Amarilly you are tired! You have worked too steadily. Sit down and rest awhile."

"'Tain't that! I'm hungry. Kin I het up the coffee and--"

"Good gracious, Amarilly! I forgot you ate at regular, stated intervals. We will go right out now to a nice little restaurant near by and eat our luncheon together."

Amarilly flushed.

"Thank you, Mr. Derry. That's orful nice in you, but I'd ruther eat here. Thar's the toast and coffee to het, and an aig--"

"No! You are going to have a good, square meal and eat it with me. You see I had to eat my birthday dinner all alone, so we'll celebrate the first of June now, together. Slip off your apron. By the way, some day I shall paint a picture of you in that apron scrubbing my 'mopboard.'"

Amarilly shook her head.

"I don't look fit to go nowhars with you, Mr. Derry."

"Vanitas, and the rest of it! Oh, Amarilly, only thirteen, and the ruling passion of your sex already in full sway!"

"It's on your account that I'm ashamed," she said in defence of his accusation. "I'd want ter look nice fer you."

"That's sweet of you, Amarilly; but if you really want to look nice, don't think of your clothes. It's other things. Think of your hair, for instance. It's your best point, and yet you hide it under a bushel and, worse than that, you braid it so tight I verily believe it's wired."

"I'm used to bein' teased about my red head," she replied. "I don't keer."

"It's a glorious red, Amarilly. The color the vulgar jeer at, and artists like your friend and twin, Derry, rave over. You're what is called 'Titian-haired,'"

"Are you makin' fun, Mr. Derry?" she asked suspiciously.

"No, Amarilly; seriously, I think it the loveliest shade of hair there is, and now I am going to show you how you should wear it. Unbind it, all four of those skin-tight braids."

She obeyed him, and a loosened, thick mass of hair fell below her waist.

"Glorious!" he cried fervidly. "Take that comb from the top of your head and comb it out. There! Now part it, and catch up these strands loosely--so. I must find a ribbon for a bow. What color would you suggest, Amarilly?"

"Brown."

"Bravo, Amarilly. If you had said blue, I should have lost all faith in your future upcoming. Here are two most beautiful brown bows on this thingamajig some one gave me last Christmas, and whose claim on creation I never discovered. Let me braid your hair loosely for two and one-quarter inches. One bow here--another there. Look in the glass, Amarilly. If I give you these bows will you promise me never to wear your hair in any other fashion until you are sixteen at least? Off with your apron! It's picturesque, but soapy and exceedingly wet. You won't need a hat. It's only around the corner, and I want your hair to be observed and admired."

Amarilly gained assurance from the reflection of her hair in the mirror, and they started gayly forth like two school children out for a lark. He ushered her into a quiet little cafe that had an air of pronounced elegance about it. In a secluded corner behind some palms came the subdued notes of stringed instruments. Derry seemed to be well known here, and his waiter viewed his approach with an air of proprietorship.

"It's dead quiet here," thought Amarilly wonderingly. "Like a church."

It was beginning to dawn upon her alert little brain that real things were all quiet, not noisy like the theatre.

"What shall we have first, Amarilly?" inquired her new friend with mock deference. "Bouillon?"

Amarilly, recalling the one time in her life when she had had "luncheon," replied casually that she preferred fruit, and suggested a melon.

"Good, Amarilly! You are a natural epicure. Fruit, certainly, on a warm day like this. I shall let you select all the courses. What next?"

"Lobster," she replied nonchalantly.

"Fine! And then?"

"Grapefruit salad."

He looked at her in amazement, and reflected that she had doubtless been employed in some capacity that had made her acquainted with luncheon menus.

"And," concluded Amarilly, without waiting for prompting, "I think an ice would be about right. And coffee in a little cup, and some cheese."

"By all means, Amarilly," he responded humbly. "And what kind of cheese, please?"

"Now I'm stumped," thought Amarilly ruefully, "fer I can't 'member how to speak the kind she hed."

"Most any kind," she said loftily, "except that kind you put in mousetraps."

"Oh, Amarilly, you are a true aristocrat! How comes it that you scrub floors? Is it on a bet?"

The waiter came up and said something to the artist in a low tone, and Derry replied hastily:

"Nothing to-day." Then, turning to Amarilly, he asked her if she would like a glass of milk. Upon her assent, he ordered two glasses of milk, to the veiled surprise of the waiter.

When the luncheon was served, Amarilly, by reason of her good memory, was still at ease. The children at the Guild school had been given a few general rules in table deportment, but Amarilly had followed every movement of Colette's so faithfully at the eventful luncheon that she ate very slowly, used the proper forks and spoons, and won Derry's undisguised admiration.

"Mr. Vedder's, good," she thought. "Mr. St. John's grand, but this 'ere Mr. Derry's folksy. I'd be skeert settin' here eatin' with Mr. St. John, but this feller's only a kid, and I feel quite to hum with him."

"Amarilly," he said confidentially, as they were sipping their coffee from "little cups," "you are truthful, I know. Will you be perfectly frank with me and answer a question?"

"Mebby," she replied warily.

"Did you ever eat a luncheon like this before?"

"I never seen the inside of a restyrant afore," she replied.

"Now you are fencing. I mean, did you ever have the same things to eat that we had just now?"

Amarilly hesitated, longing to mystify him further, but it came over her in a rush how very kind he had been to her.

"Yes, I hev. I'll tell you all about it."

"Good! An after-dinner story! Beat her up, Amarilly!"

So she told him of her patroness and the luncheon she had eaten at her house.

"And I watched how she et and done, and she tole me the names of the things we hed. I writ them out, and that was my lesson that night with the Boarder."

Then, of course, Derry must know all about the Boarder and the brothers. After she had finished her faithful descriptions, it was time to return to the studio. Her quick, keen eyes had noted the size of the bill Derry had put on the salver, and the small amount of change he had received. She walked home beside him in troubled silence.

"What's the matter, Amarilly?" he asked as she was buttoning on her apron preparatory to resuming work. "Didn't the luncheon agree with you, or are you mad at me? And for why, pray?"

Amarilly's thin little face flushed and a tear came into each thoughtful eye.

"I hedn't orter to hev tole you ter git all them things. I was atryin' ter be smart and show off, but, honest, I didn't know they was agoin' ter cost so much. I ain't agoin' ter take no money fer the cleanin', and that'll help some."

Derry laughed rapturously.

"My dear child!" he exclaimed, when he could speak. "You are a veritable little field daisy. You really saved me money by going with me. If I had gone alone, I should have spent twice as much."

"How could that be?" she asked unbelievingly. "You would only hev give one order, so 'twould hev ben jest half as much."

"But if you had not been with me, I should have had a cocktail and a bottle of wine, which would have cost more than our meal. Out of deference to your youth and other things, I forbore to indulge. So you see I saved money by having you along. And then it was much better for me not to have had those libations."

"Honest true?"

"Honest true, hope to die! Cross my heart and all the rest of it! I'd lie cheerfully to some people, but never to you, Amarilly."

"My. Reeves-Eggleston--he's on the stage--said artists was allers poor."

"That's one reason why I am not an artist--a great artist. I am hampered by an inheritance that allows me to live without working, so I don't do anything worth while. I only dabble at this and that. Some day, maybe, I'll have an inspiration."

"Go to work now," she admonished.

"I must perforce. My model's foot is on the stair."

Amarilly left the studio to resume her cleaning. At five o'clock she came back. Derry stood at the window, working furiously at some fleecy clouds sailing over a cerulean sky. She was about to speak, but discerning that he must work speedily and uninterruptedly to keep pace with the shifting clouds, she refrained.

"There!" he said. "I got it. You were a good little girl not to interrupt me, Amarilly."

"It's beautiful!" gasped Amarilly. "I was afeard you'd git the sky blue instead of purplish and that you'd make the clouds too white."

"Amarilly, you've the soul of an artist! In you I have found a true critic."

"Come and see if the rooms is all right. I got 'em real clean. Every nook and corner. And--"

"I know you did, Amarilly, without looking. I can smell the clean from here."

"If thar's nothin' more you want did, I'll go hum."

"Here's a dollar for the rooms and two dollars for the surplice. Amarilly, you were glad to learn table manners from Miss King, weren't you?"

"Yes; I like to larn all I kin."

"Then, will you let me teach you something?"

"Sure!" she acquiesced quickly.

"There are two things you must do for me. Never say 'et'; say 'ate' instead. Then you must say 'can'; not 'kin.' It will be hard to remember at first, but every time you forget and make a mistake, remember to-day and our jolly little luncheon, will you?"

"I will, and I _can_, Mr. Derry."

"You're an apt little pupil, Amarilly, and I am going to teach you two words every time you come."

"Oh!" exclaimed Amarilly, brightening. "Will you want me ter come agin?"

"Indeed I shall. I am going away next week to the mountains for a couple of months. When I come back, I am going to have you come every morning at nine o'clock. You can prepare and serve my simple breakfast and clean my rooms every day. Then they won't get so disreputable. I will pay you what they do at the theatre, and it will not be such hard work. Will you enjoy it as well?"

"Oh, better!" exclaimed Amarilly.

And with this naive admission died the last spark of Amarilly's stage-lust.

"Then consider yourself engaged. You can call for the surplice to-morrow afternoon at this hour."

"Thank you, Mr. Derry."

She hesitated, and then awkwardly extended her hand, which he shook most cordially.

"Thank you for a day's entertainment, Amarilly. I haven't been bored once. You have very nice hands," looking down at the one he still held.

She reddened and jerked her hand quickly away.

"Now you _are_ kiddin'! They're redder than my hair, and rough and big."

"I repeat, Amarilly, you have nice hands. It isn't size and color that counts; it's shape, and from an artist's standpoint you have shapely hands. Now will you be good, and shake hands with me in a perfectly ladylike way? Thank you, Amarilly."

"Thank _you_, Mr. Derry. It's the beautifulest day I ever hed. Better'n the matinee or the Guild or--" she drew a quick breath and said in a scared whisper--"the church!"

"I am flattered, Amarilly. We shall have many ruby-lettered days like it."