XI
The sun had gone down, and the last of its lingering glory had diedbefore the yawl managed to cajole her way back to her mooring.
Dinner was ready by the time the hungry threesome, laughing andtalking, arrived at the cottage. Howard, spoiling for a cocktail, madefor the small square dining-room, and Irene, waving her hand toTootles, cried out, "Cheero, dearie, you missed a speedy trip, I don'tthink," and took her into the house to tidy up in the one bathroom.Martin drew up short on the edge of the stoop, listened and lookedabout, holding his breath. It was most odd, but--there was something inthe still air that had the sense of Joan in it.
After a moment, during which his very soul asked for a sight of her, hestumped into the living room and rang the bell impatiently.
The imperturbable Judson appeared at once, his eyebrows slightly raised.
"Has any one been here while I've been away?" asked Martin.
"No, sir. No one except Miss Capper, who's been reading on the stoop."
"You're quite sure?"
"You never can be quite sure about anything in this life, sir, but Isaw no one."
"Oh," said Martin. "All right, then." But when he was alone, he stoodagain, listening and looking. There was nothing of Joan in the room. Amixture of honeysuckle and tobacco and the aroma of cooking that hadslipped through the swing door into the the kitchen. That was all. AndMartin sighed deeply and said to himself "Not yet. I must go onwaiting," and went upstairs to his bedroom. He could hear Irene's voiceabove the rush of water in the bathroom and Howard's, outside, raisedin song. In the trees outside his window a bird was piping to its mate,and in the damp places here and there the frogs had already begun totry their voices for their community chorus. It was a peaceful earth,thereabouts falsely peaceful. An acute ear could easily have detectedan angry roar of guns that came ever nearer and nearer, and caught thewhisper of a Voice calling and calling.
When Martin returned to the wood-lined sitting room with its largebrick chimney, its undergraduate chairs and plain oak furniture, itsround thick blue and white mats and disorderly bookcase, Tootles wasthere, a Tootles with a high chin, a half defiant smile, andhoneysuckle at her belt.
"Tootles."
"Yes?"
"Have you been alone all the afternoon?"
"Yes." (Fight? Tooth and nail.) "Except for the flies.... Why, boy?"
"Oh, nothing. I thought--I mean, I wondered--but it doesn't matter. Bygum, you have made the room look smart, haven't you? Good old Tootles.Even a man's room can be made to look like something when a girl takesan interest in it."
If she had been a dog she would have wagged her tail and crinkled upher nose and jumped up to put her nozzle against his hand. As it wasshe flushed with pleasure and gave a little laugh. She was athousandfold repaid for all her pains. But, during the first half of ameal made riotous by the invincible Howard and the animated Irene,Tootles sat very quiet and thoughtful and even a little awed. How couldMartin have sensed the fact that she had been there?... Couldshe,--could she possibly, even with the ever-ready help ofnature,--hope to win against such a handicap? She would see. She wouldsee. It was her last card. But during all the rest of the meal she sawthe picture of a muscular sun-tanned youth carrying that prettyunconscious thing down the incline to a car, and, all against her will,she was sorry. That girl, pampered as she was, outside the big ring ofhard daily effort and sordid struggle as she always had had the luck tobe, loved, too. Gee, it was a queer world.
The stoop called them when they left the boxlike dining room. It wasstill hot and airless. But the mosquitoes were out with voraciousappetite and discretion held them to the living room.
Irene flung herself on the bumpy sofa with a cigarette between her lipsand a box near to her elbow. "This's the life," she said. "I shallnever be able to go back to lil' old Broadway and grease paint and adog kennel in Chorusland."
"Sufficient for the day," said Howard, loosening his belt. "If amiracle man blew in here right now with a million dollars in each handand said: 'Howard Guthrie Oldershaw,'--he'd be sure to know about theGuthrie,--'this is all yours if you'll come to the city,' I'd..."
Irene leaned forward with her mouth open and her round eyes as big asheadlights. "Well?"
"Take it and come right back."
"You disappoint me, Funny-face. Go to the piano and hit the notes.That's all you're fit for."
It was a baby grand, much out of tune, but Howard, bulging over thestool, made it sound like an orchestra,--a cabaret orchestra, and ranfrom Grieg to Jerome Kern and back to Gounod, syncopating everythingwith the gusto and the sense of time that is almost peculiar to acolored professional. Then he suddenly burst into song and sang about ababy in the soft round high baritone of all men who run to fat and withthe same quite charming sympathy. A useful, excellent fellow, amazinglyunself-conscious and gifted.
Martin was infinitely content to listen and lie back in a deep strawchair with a pipe between his teeth, the memories of good evenings atYale curling up in his smoke. And Tootles, thinking and thinking, sat,Puck-like, at his feet, with her warm shoulders against his knees. Notin her memory could she delve for pleasant things, not yet. Eh, butsome day she might be among the lucky ones, if--if her plan wentthrough--
Howard lit another cigarette at the end of the song, but before hecould get his hands on the notes again Irene bounded to her feet andwent over to the piano. "Say, can you play 'Love's Epitome'?" shepronounced it "Eppy-tomy."
"Can a duck swim?" asked Howard, resisting a temptation to emit a howlof mirth. She was too good a sort to chaff about her frequentmaltreatment of the language.
"Go ahead, then, and I'll give you all a treat." He played thesentimental prelude of this characteristic product of the vaudevillestage, every note of which was plagiarized from a thousand plagiarismsand which imagined that eternity rhymed with serenity and mother withweather. With gestures that could belong to no other school than thatof the twice-dailies and the shrill nasal voice that inevitably goeswith them, Irene, with the utmost solemnity, went solidly through thewhole appalling thing, making the frequent yous "yee-ooo" in the true"vawdville" manner.
To Tootles it was very moving, and she was proud of her friend. Martinalmost died of it, and Howard was weak from suppressed laughter. It wasthe first time that Irene had shown the boys what she could do, and shewas delighted at their enthusiastic applause. She would have renderedanother of the same sort gladly enough,--she knew dozens of them, ifTootles had not given her a quick look and risen to her feet.
"Us for the downey," she said, and put the palm of her hand on Martin'slips. He kissed it.
"Not yet," said Howard. "It's early."
"Late enough for those who get up at dawn, old dear. Come on, Irene."
And Irene, remembering what her friend had said that morning, playedthe game loyally, although most reluctant to leave that pleasantatmosphere, and said "Good night." And she was in such good voice andHoward played her accompaniment like a streak. Well, well.
Tootles took her hand away gently, gave Martin a little disturbingsmile, put her arm round the robust shoulders of her chum, opened thescreen door and was gone.
Howard immediately left the piano. He had only played to keep thingsmerry and bright. "Me for a drink," he said. "And I think I've earnedit."
Martin's teeth gleamed as he gave one of his silent laughs.
"How well you know me, old son," he said.
"Of course. But--why?"
"I like Tootles awfully. She's one in a million. But somehow it's--oh,I dunno,--mighty difficult to talk to her."
"Poor little devil," said Howard involuntarily.
"But she's having a real good time--isn't she?"
"Is she?" He helped himself to a mild highball in reluctant deferenceto his weight.
"I've never seen her look so well," said Martin.
Wondering whether to tell the truth about her state of mind, which hisquick sophisticated eyes had very quickly mastered, Howard drank, anddecided that he would
n't. It would only make things uncomfortable forMartin and be of no service to Tootles. If she loved him, poor littlesoul, and he was not made of the stuff to take advantage of it, well,there it was. He, himself, was different, but then he had no Joan as asilent third. No, he would let things alone. Poor old Tootles.
"Great weather," he said, wrenching the conversation into a harmlessgenerality. "Are you sleeping on the yawl to-night?"
"Yes," replied Martin. "It's wonderful on the water. So still. I canhear the stars whisper."
"Most of the stars I know get precious noisy at night," said Howard,characteristically unable to let such a chance go by. Then he grewsuddenly grave and sat down. "Martin, I'm getting frightfully fed upwith messing about in town. I'm going to turn a mental and physicalsomersault and get a bit of self-respect."
"Oh? How's that, old man."
"It's this damn war, I think. I've been reading a book in bed by a mancalled Philip Gibbs. Martin, I'm going to Plattsburg this August to seeif they can make something of me."
Martin got up. "I'm with you," he said. "If ever we get into thisbusiness I'm going to be among the first bunch to go. So we may as wellknow something. Well, how about turning in now? There'll be a windto-morrow. Hear the trees?" He filled his pocket with cigarettes andslung a white sweater over his shoulder.
"All right," said Howard. "I shall read down here a bit. I won't forgetto turn out and lock up." He had forgotten one night and Judson hadreported him.
"Good night, old son."
"Good night, old man."
Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence Page 29