VI
Master of all the sky, the sun fell warmly on the city, makingdelicious shadows, gliding giant buildings, streaming across the park,chasing the endless traffic along the Avenue, and catching at points ofcolor. It was one of those splendid mornings of full-blown Tune, wheneven New York,--that paradox of cities,--had beauty. It was too earlyin the year for the trees to have grown blowsy and the grass worn andburnt. The humidity of midsummer was held back by the energy of a merrybreeze which teased the flags and sent them spinning against theoriental blue of the spotless sky.
Martin walked to West Forty-sixth Street. There was an air of half-timeabout the Avenue. The ever-increasingly pompous and elaborate shops,whose window contents never seem to vary, wore a listless, uninterestedexpression like that of a bookmaker during the luncheon hour at theraces. Their glittering smile, their enticement and solicitation, theirtempting eye-play were relaxed. The cocottes of Monte Carlo at the endof the season could not have assumed a greater indifference. But therewere the same old diamonds and pearls, the same old canvases, the sameold photographs, the same old antiques, the same old frocks and shoesand men's shirtings, the same old Persian rugs and Japanese ware, thesame cold, hard plates and china, the very same old hats and dinks anddressing-gowns and cut flowers and clubs, and all the same doormen inthe uniforms that are a cross between those of admirals and generals,the men whose only exercise during the whole of the year is obtained bycutting ice and sweeping snow from just their particular patch ofpavement. In all the twists and changes, revolutions and crosscurrents, upheavals and in-fallings that affect this world, there isone great street which, except for a new building here and there,resolutely maintains its persistent sameness. Its face is like that ofa large, heavily made-up and not unbeautiful woman, veil-less and withsome dignity but only two expressions, enticement and indifference. Aman may be lost at the North Pole, left to die on the west coast ofAfrica, married in London, or forcibly detained in Siberia, but, lethim return to life and New York, and he will find that whateverelsewhere Anno Domini may have defaced and civilization made different,next to nothing has happened to Fifth Avenue.
Martin had told Howard of the way he had found Joan on the hill, howshe had climbed out of window that night and come to him to be rescuedand how he had brought her to town to find Alice Palgrave away andmarried her. All that, but not one word of his having been shown thedoor on the night of the wedding, of her preference for Palgrave, herplunge into night life, or his own odd hut human adventure with SusieCapper as a result of the accident. But for the fact that it wasn't hisway to speak about his wife whatever she did or left undone, Martinwould have been thankful to have made a clean breast of everything.Confession is good for the soul, and Martin's young soul needed to berelieved of many bewilderments and pains and questionings. He wishedthat he could have continued the story to Howard of the kid's way Joanhad treated him,--a way which had left him stultified,--of how, touchedby the tragedy that had reduced the poor little waif of the chorus toutter grief and despair, he had taken her out to the country to gethealing in God's roofless cathedral, and of how, treating her, becauseof his love and admiration of Joan, with all the respect and tendernessthat he would have shown a sister, it had given him the keenestpleasure and delight to help her back to optimism and sanity. He wouldlike to have told Howard all the simple and charming details of thatgood week, giving him a sympathetic picture of the elfish Tootlesenjoying her brief holiday out in the open, and of her recovery underthe inspiration of trees and flowers and brotherliness, to all of whichshe was so pathetically unaccustomed. He wouldn't have told of the manyefforts made by Tootles to pay him back in the only way that seemed toher to be possible, even if he had known of them,--he had not been onthe lookout for anything of that sort. Nor would he, of course, havegone into the fact that Tootles loved him quite as much as he lovedJoan,--he knew nothing of that. But he would have said much of the joythat turned cold at the sight of Joan's face when she saw Tootles lyingon the sofa in his den, of her rush to get away, of the short, sharpscene which followed her unexpected visit, and of his having drivenTootles back to town the following morning at her urgent request,--acurious, quiet Tootles with the marks of a sleepless night on her face.Also he would have said something of his wild despair at having beenjust ten minutes too late to find Joan at the house in East Sixty-fifthStreet, of his futile attempts to discover where she had gone, and ofthe ghastly, mystifying days back in the country, waiting and wonderingand writing letters that he never posted,--utterly unaware of theemotion which had prompted Joan to walk into his den that night, butquite certain of the impression that she had taken away with her.
It was with a sense of extraordinary isolation that Martin walked downFifth Avenue. Two good things had, however, come out of his talk withHoward Oldershaw. One was the certainty of this man's friendship. Theother the knowledge of the place at which Joan was staying. This lastfact made him all the more anxious to get down to the cottage. Devonwas only a short drive from Easthampton, and that meant the possibilityof seeing and speaking to Joan. Good God, if only she could understanda little of what she meant to him, and how he craved and pined for her.
The dressmaker on the street floor of the rabbit warren had gone out ofbusiness. Failed probably, poor thing. Tootles had once said that theonly people she ever saw in the shop were pressing creditors. A coloredwoman of bulbous proportions and stertorous breathing was giving acatlick to the dirty stairway. A smell of garlic and onions met Martinon his way to the rooms of Tootles' friend, and on the first landing hedrew back to let two men pass down who looked like movie actors. Theywore violet ties and tight-fitting jackets with trench belts and shorttrousers that should have been worn by their younger brothers. Theactor on the next floor, unshaven and obviously just out of bed, wascooking breakfast in his cubby-hole. He wore the upper part of hispajamas and a pair of incredibly dirty flannel trousers. The marks oflast night's grease paint were on his temples and eyebrows. He hummed alittle song to the accompaniment of sizzling bacon.
When Martin knocked on the door of the apartment of the girl to whom hehad never spoken except over the telephone and whose name he rememberedto be Irene Stanton, a high-pitched, nasal voice cried out.
"Come right in." He went right in and was charged at by a half-bredChow whose bark was like a gunman's laugh, and a tiny pink beast whichworked itself into a state of hysterical rage. But when a high-heeledshoe was flung at them from the bedroom, followed by a volley offruit-carrier words of the latest brand, they retired, awed andhorror-stricken, to cover.
Martin found himself in a small, square living room with two windowslooking over the intimate backs of other similar houses. Under the bestof conditions it was not a room of very comfortable possibilities. Inthe hands of its present occupant, it was, to Martin's eyes, the mostdepressing and chaotic place he had ever seen. The cheap furniture andthe cheaper wall paper went well with a long-unwhite-washed ceiling andsmudged white paint. A line of empty beer bottles which stood on amantelpiece littered with unframed photographs and dog-eared Christmascards struck a note so blase that it might almost have been committedfor a reason. On the square mission table in the center there was alamp with a belaced pink shade at a cock-eyed angle which resembled thebonnet of a streetwalker in the early hours of the morning. An electriciron stood coldly beneath it with its wire attached to a fixture in thewall. Various garments littered the chairs and sofa, and jagged piecesof newspaper which had been worried by the dogs covered the floor.
But the young woman who shortly made her appearance was very differentfrom the room. Her frock was neat and clean, her face most carefullymade up, her shoes smart. She had a wide and winning grin, teeth thatshould have advertised a toothpaste, and a pair of dimples which oughtto have been a valuable asset to any chorus. "Why, but you HAVE done ahustle," she said. "I haven't even had time to tidy up a bit." Shecleared a chair and shook a finger at the dogs, who, sneaking out fromunder the sofa, were eyeing her with apprehensive affection.
The Chow'smother had evidently lost her heart to a bulldog. "Excuse the look ofthis back attic," she added. "I've got to move, and I'm in the middleof packing."
"Of course," said Martin, eager to know why he had been sent for. "It'sabout Tootles, you said."
"Very much so." She sat on the edge of the table, crossed her arms, anddeliberately looked Martin over with expert eyes. Knowing as much aboutmen as a mechanic of a main-road motor-repairing shop knows aboutengines, her examination was acute and thorough.
Martin waited quietly, amused at her coolness, but impatient to come tocues. She was a good sort, he knew. Tootles had told him so, and he wascertain that she had asked to see him out of friendship for the girlupstairs.
Her first question was almost as disconcerting and abrupt as a Zeppelinbomb. "What did you do to Tootles?"
Martin held her examining gaze. "Nothing, except give her a bit of aholiday," he said.
"I saw you go off with her that morning." She smiled and her eyesbecame a little more friendly. "She wrote me a letter from your placeand said she'd found out what song writers meant by the word heaven."
"Did she?" said Martin. "I'm glad."
It came to her in a flash that her little pal had fallen in love withthis boy and instantly she understood the mystery of Tootles' change ofmethod and point of view--her moping, her relaxed grip on life. Shemeant almost nothing to the boy and knew it.
"But don't you think you might have been to see her since you broughther back?" she asked.
"I've been very worried," said Martin simply.
"Is that so?" and then, after another pause, this girl said a secondastonishing thing. "I wish I didn't see in you a man who tells thetruth. I wish you were just one of the ordinary sort that comes ourway. I should know how to deal with you better."
"Tell me what you mean," said Martin.
"Shall I? All right, I will." She stood up with her hands on her hips."If you'd played the usual game with little Tootles and dropped hercold, I wouldn't let you get out of this room without coming up toscratch. I'd make you cough up a good-sized check. There's such a thingas playing the game even by us strap-hangers, you know. As it is, I cansee that you were on the square, that you're a bit of a poet orsomething and did Tootles a good turn for nothing, and honestly, Idon't know the next move. You don't owe her anything, you see."
"Is money the trouble?" asked Martin.
Irene Stanton shot out an odd, short laugh. "Let me tell yousomething," she said. "You know what happened at the dress rehearsal of'The Ukelele Girl'? Well, the word's gone around about her chucking theshow at the last minute, and it's thumbs down for Tootles. She hadn't anickel when she came back from your place, and since then she's pawnedherself right down to the bone to pay her rent and get a few eats. Shewouldn't take nothing from me because I'm out too, and this is a badtime to get into anything new. Only two things can stop her from beingput out at the end of the week. One's going across the passage to thedrunken fellow that writes music, and the other's telling the tale toyou. She won't do either. I've never seen her the way she is now. Shesits around, staring at the wall, and when I try to put some of herusual pep into her she won't listen. She's all changed since that tasteof the country, and I figure she won't get on her feet again without abig yank up. She keeps on saying to herself, like a sort of song, 'Oh,Gawd, for a sight of the trees,' and I've known girls end it quick whenthey get that way."
Martin got up. "Where do you keep your pen and ink?" he asked. Poor oldTootles. There certainly was something to do.
Irene bent forward eagerly. "Are you going to see her through thissnag?"
"Of course I am."
"Ah, that's the talk. But wait a second. We got to be tricky aboutthis." She was excited and tremendously in earnest. "If she gets toknow I've been holding out the hat to you, we're wasting time. Give methe money, see? I'll make up a peach of a story about how it came tome,--the will of a rich uncle in Wisconsin or something, you know,--andask her to come and help me blow it in somewhere on the coast, see? Shegave me three weeks' holiday once. It's my turn now, me being inluck.... But perhaps you don't trust me?"
"You trust me," said Martin, and gave her one of his honest smiles.
He caught sight of a bottle of ink on the window sill. There was a penof sorts there also. He brought them to the table and made out a checkin the name of his fellow conspirator. He was just as anxious as shewas to put "a bit of pep" into the little waif who had sat beneath theportrait of his father. There was no blotting paper, so he waved it inthe air before handing it over.
A rush of tears came to Irene's eyes when she saw what he had written.She held out her hand, utterly giving up an attempt to find words.
"Thank you for calling up," said Martin, doing his best to be perfectlynatural and ordinary. "I wish you'd done so sooner. Poor old Tootles.Write to the Devon Yacht Club, Long Island, and let me know how you geton. We've all three been up against some rotten bad luck, haven't we?Good-by, then. I'll go up to Tootles now."
"No, no," she said, "don't. That'd bring my old uncle to life rightaway. She'd guess you was in on this, all right. Slip off and let mehave a chance with my movie stuff." With a mixture of emotion andhilarity she suddenly waved the check above her head. "Can you imaginethe fit the receiving teller at my little old bank'll throw when I slipthis across as if it meant nothing to me?"
And then she caught up one of Martin's hands and did the mostdisconcerting thing of all. She pressed it to her lips and kissed it.
Martin got as red as a beet. "Well, then, good-by," he said, making forthe door. "Good luck."
"Good-by and good luck to you. My word, but you've made optimism sproutall over my garden, and I thought the very roots of it were dead."
For a few minutes after Martin was gone, she danced about her appallingroom, and laughed and cried and said the most extraordinary things toher dogs. The little pink beast became hysterical again, and the Chowleaped into a bundle of under-clothing and worried the life out of it.Finally, having hidden the check in a safe place, the girl ran upstairsto break the good news of her uncle's death to Tootles. Why, they coulddo the thing like ladies, the pair of them. It was immense, marvellous,almost beyond belief! That old man of Wisconsin deserved a place inHeaven.... Heaven--Devon.
It was an inspiration. "Gee, but that's the idea!" she said to herself."Devon--and the sight of that boy. That'll put the pep back, unless I'mthe original nut. And if he doesn't care about her now, he maypresently. Others have."
And when she went in, there was Tootles staring at the wall, andthrough it and away beyond at the place Martin had called theCathedral, and at Martin, with his face dead-white because Joan hadturned and gone.