It was a different Tootles who, ten days later, sat on a bank of dry
ferns that overlooked a superb stretch of water and watched the sun go
down. The little half-plucked bird of the Forty-sixth Street garret
with the pale thin face and the large tired eyes had almost become the
fairy of Joan's hill once more, the sun-tanned little brother of Peter
Pan again. A whole week of the air of Devon and the smell of its pines,
of the good wholesome food provided by the family with whom she and
Irene were lodging, of long rambles through the woods, of bathing and
sleeping, and the joy of finding herself among trees had performed that
"yank" of which her fellow chorus lady had spoken.
Tootles was on her feet again. Her old zest to live had been given back
to her by the wonder and the beauty of sky and water and trees. A child
of nature, hitherto forced to struggle for her bread in cities, she was
revived and renewed and refreshed by the sweet breath and the warm
welcome of that simple corner of God's earth to which Irene had so
cunningly brought her. Her starved, city-ridden spirit had blossomed
and become healthy out there in the country like a root of Creeping
Jenny taken from a pot on the window-sill of a slum house and put back
into good brown earth.
The rough and ready family with whom they were lodging kept a duck
farm, and it was to this white army of restless, greedy things that
Tootles owed her first laugh. Tired and smut-bespattered after a
tedious railway journey she had eagerly and with childish joy gone at
once to see them fed, the old and knowing, the young and optimistic,
and all the yellow babies with uncertain feet and tiny noises. After
that, a setting sun which set fire to the sky and water and trees,
melting and mingling them together, and Tootles turned the corner. The
motherless waif slept that night on Nature's maternal breast and was
comforted.
The warm-hearted Irene was proud of herself. Devon--Heaven--it was
indeed an inspiration. The only fly in her amber came from the fact
that Martin was away. But when she discovered that he and his friend
had merely gone for a short trip on the yawl she waited with great
content for their return, setting the seeds in Tootles' mind, with
infinite diplomacy and feminine cunning, of a determination to use all
her wiles to win even a little bit of love from Martin as soon as she
saw him again.
Playing the part of one who had unexpectedly benefited from the will of
an almost-forgotten relative she never, of course, said a word of why
she had chosen Devon for this gorgeous holiday. Temporarily wealthy it
was not necessary to look cannily at every nickel. Before leaving New
York she had bought herself and Tootles some very necessary clothes and
saw to it that they lived on as much of the fat of the land as could be
obtained in the honest and humble house in which she had found a large
two-bedded room. Her cigarettes were Egyptian now and on the train she
had bought half a dozen new novels at which she looked with pride.
Hitherto she had been obliged to read only those much-handled
blase-looking books which went the round of the chorus. Conceive what
that meant! Also she had brought with her a bottle of the scent that
was only, so far as she knew, within reach of leading ladies. Like the
cigarettes and the books, this was really for Tootles to use, but she
borrowed a little from time to time.
As for Irene Stanton, then, she was having, and said so, the time of
her young life. She richly deserved it, and if her kindness and
thoughtfulness, patience and sympathy had not been entered in the big
volume of the Recording Angel that everlasting young woman must have
neglected her pleasant job for several weeks.
And, as for Tootles, it is true that her bobbed hair still owed its
golden brilliance to a bottle, but the white stuff on her face had been
replaced by sunburn, and her lips were red all by themselves.
She was watching the last of the great red globe when her friend joined
her. There had been a race of sloops that afternoon, and there was
unusual animation on the quay and at the little club house. A small
power boat, on which were the starter and judges and others, had just
put in with a good deal of splutter and fuss. On the stoop of the club
a small band was playing, and a bevy of young people were dancing.
Following in the wake of the last sloop a yawl with a dingey in tow was
coming towards the quay.
Seeing that Tootles was in one of her ecstatic moods and was deaf to
remarks, Irene saved her words to cool her porridge and watched the
incoming yawl. She did so at first without much interest. It was merely
a sailboat to her city eyes, and her good lines and good management
meant nothing. But as she came nearer something familiar in the cut of
the man at her helm caught her attention. Surely those broad shoulders
and that deep chest and small head could belong only to Martin Gray?
They did, they did. It was that boy at last, that boy about whom
Tootles had gone dippy, that boy whose generosity had made their
holiday possible, that boy the first sight of whom would put the last
touch to Tootles' recovery--that boy who, if her friend set her mind
and feminine charm to work, might, it seemed to the practical Irene,
make her future safe. Strap-hangers had very few such chances.
With a tremendous effort she sat wordless and waited, knowing that
Martin must come that way to his cottage. With all her sense of the
dramatic stirred she watched the business of coming to anchor with some
impatience and when finally the dingey was hauled in and the two men
got aboard, loosed off and rowed to shore, excitement sent the blood
tingling through her veins. She heard them laugh and look up towards
the club, now almost deserted; cars were being driven inland in quick
succession. She watched them, hatless and sun-tanned, come nearer and
nearer. She got up as if to go, hesitated, caught Martin's eye, gave an
exclamation of well-acted amazement and waved her hand. "Well," she
cried out, "for Heaven's sake! I never thought you meant this little
old Devon!"
Howard had long ago caught sight of the two girls and wondered if they
were pretty, hoping they would remain until he could decide the point
for himself. They were, both of them, and Martin knew them. Good
enough. He stood by while Martin greeted the one who spoke and then saw
the other wake suddenly at the sound of his friend's voice, stumble to
her feet and go forward with a little cry.
"Why, Tootles," said Martin warmly. "I never thought of seeing you
here. How well you look."
It was like dreaming true. Tootles could only smile and cling to his
hand.
"By Jove, the other girl," thought Howard, with what, after all, was
only an easy touch of intuition. The girl's face told her story. "What
will this mean?" Then there were introductions, questions and answers,
laughter, jokes, a quick exchange of glances between Martin and Irene,
in which he received and acknowledged her warning, and a little silence.
"Come up to the cottage and have dinner with us," said Martin, breaking
it rather nervously. "Can you?"
Tootles nodded. Devon--Heaven. How perfectly the words rhymed.
"You couldn't keep us away with a stick," said Irene. This was the way
things should go. Also, the jovial, fat person with the roving eyes
might brighten things considerably for her.
"Great work!" Said Howard.
And then, taking Tootle's arm and breaking into enthusiastic details of
the sailing trip, Martin led the way up to the cottage among the firs.
It was good to have been able to put little Tootles into spirits again.
Howard followed with Irene. "Gee whiz!" he said to himself, "some
dimples!"
A few miles away as the crow flies Gilbert Palgrave In his bedroom in
St. James's Palace cursed himself and life because Joan was still as
difficult to win as sunshine was to bottle.
And up in the sky that hung above them all the angels were lighting the
stars.