Breakfast was on the table.To Irene, who came down in her dressing gown with her hair just bundled up and her face coated with powder, eight o'clock was an unearthly hour at which to begin the day.In New York she slept until eleven, read the paper until twelve, cooked and disposed of a combined breakfast-lunch at one, and if it was a matinee day, rushed round to the theater, and if it wasn't, killed time until her work called her in the evening.A boob's life, as she called it, was a trying business, but the tyranny of the bustling woman with whom she lodged was such that if breakfast was not eaten at eight o'clock it was not there to eat.Like an English undergraduate who scrambles out of bed to attend Chapel simply to avoid a fine, this product of Broadway theaterdom conformed to the rule of Mrs.Burrell's energetic house because the good air of Devon gave her a voracious appetite.Then, too, even if she missed breakfast, she had to pay for it, "so there you are, old dear."Tootles, up with the lark as usual, was down among the ducks, giving Farmer Burrell a useful hand.She delighted in doing so.From a country grandfather she had inherited a love of animals and of the early freshness of the morning that found eager expression, now that she had the chance of giving it full rein.Then, too, all that was maternal in her nature warmed at the sight and sound of all those new, soft, yellow things that waddled closely behind the wagging tails of their mothers, and it gave her a sort of sweet comfort to go down on her knees and hold one of these frightened babies against her cheek.
Crying out, "Oo-oo, Tootles," from halfway down the cinder path, Irene, stimulated by the aroma of hot coffee and toast, and eggs and bacon, returned to the living room and fell to humming, "You're here and I'm here."Tootles joined her immediately, a very different looking little person from the tired-eyed, yawning girl of the city rabbit warren.
Health was in her eyes and a little smile at the corners of her mouth.Quick work was made of the meal to the intermittent duck talk of Mrs.Burrell who came in and out of the kitchen through a creaking door,--a normal, noisy soul, to whom life was a succession of laborious days spent between the cooking stove and the washtub with a regular Saturday night, in her best clothes, at the motion-picture theater at Sag Harbor to gape at the abnormality of Theda Bara and scream with uncontrolled mirth at the ingenious antics of Charlie Chaplin.An ancient Ford made possible this weekly dip into these intense excitements.
And then the two girls left the living room with its inevitable rocking chairs and framed texts and old heating stove with a funnel through the wall and went out into the sun.
"Well, dearie," said Irene, sitting on the edge of the stoop, within sound of the squeaking of a many-armed clothes drier, teased by a nice sailing wind."Us for the yawl to-day.""You for the yawl," said Tootles."I'm staying here to help old man Burrell.It's his busy day."Irene looked up quickly."What's the idea?""Just that,--and something else.I don't want to see Martin till this evening.I moved things last night, and I want him to miss me a bit.""Ah," said Irene."I guessed it meant something when you made that quick exit when we moved up.Have you got him, dearie?"Tootles shot out a queer little sigh and nodded.
"That's fine.He's not like the others, is he? But you've played him great.Oh, I've seen it all, never you fear.Subtle, old dear, very subtle.Shouldn't have had the patience myself.Go in and win.He's worth it." Tootles put her hands over her face and a great sob shook her.
In an instant, Irene had her in her arms."Dear old Tootles," she said, "it means an awful lot to you, don't it? Don't give way, girlie.You've done mighty well so far.Now follow it up, hot and fast.That boy's got a big heart and he's generous and kind, and he won't forget.I brought you here for this, such a chance as it was, and if I can see you properly fixed up and happy, my old uncle's little bit of velvet will have come in mighty useful, eh? Got a plan for to-night?"Tootles nodded again."If I don't win to-night," she said, "it's all over.I shall have to own that he cares for me less than the dust.Ishall have to throw up my hands and creep away and hide.Oh, my God, am I such a rotten little freak as all that, Irene? Tell me, go on, tell me.""Freak? You! For Heaven's sake.Don't the two front rows give nobody but you the supper signal whenever the chorus is on?""But they're not like Martin.He's,--well, I dunno just what he is.
For one thing there's that butterfly he's married to.He's never said as much as half a word about her to me, but the look that came into his eyes when he saw her the night I told you about,--I'd be run over by a train for it any time.He's a man alright and wants love as bad as I do.I know that, but sometimes, when I watch his face, when neither of us is talking, there's a queer smile on it, like a man who's looking up at somebody, and he sets his jaw and squares his shoulders just as if he had heard a voice telling him to play straight.Many times I've seen it, Irene, and after that I have to begin all over again.I respect him for it, and it makes me love him more and more.I've never had the luck to meet a man like him.
The world would be a bit less rotten for the likes of you and me if there were more of him about, I tell you.But it hurts me like the devil because it makes me feel no better than a shoe with the buttons off and the heel all worn down, and I ask myself what's the blooming use.But last night I kissed him, and I saw his eyes glint for the first time and to-night,--to-night, Irene, I'm going to play my last card.Yes, that's what I'm going to do, play the last card in the pack.""How?" asked Irene eagerly, sympathy and curiosity bubbling to the top.
Tootles shook her head."It isn't lucky to go talking about it." she said, with a most wistful smile."You'll know whether it's the heights or the depths for me when you see me in the morning.""In the morning? Shan't you be..."
"Don't ask.Just wish me luck and go and have a good day with the boys.I shall be waiting for you at the cottage.And now I'm off down to the ducks.Say I've got a headache and don't let 'em come round and try to fetch me.So long, Irene; you've been some pal to me through this and I shall never forget."Whereupon Tootles went off to lend the unloquacious Burrell a helping hand, and Irene ran up to the bedroom to dress.
From the pompous veranda of the Hosack place Gilbert Palgrave, sick with jealousy, watched Joan swimming out to the barrels with that cursed boy in tow.And he, too, had made up his mind to play his last card that night.
Man and woman and love,--the old, inevitable story.