Tessie"s carefully planned story crumbled into nothingness. "It"s me!"
she whimpered. "It"s me!"
He reached out and put a hand on her arm and drew her inside.
"Angie! Angie! Here"s a poor little kid...."
Tessie clutched frantically at the last crumbs of her pride. She tried to straighten, to smile with her old bravado. What was that story she had planned to tell?
"Who is it, dad? Who...?" Angie Hatton came into the hallway. She stared at Angie. Then: "Why, my dear!" she said. "My dear! Come in here."
Angie Hatton! Tessie began to cry weakly, her face buried in Angie Hatton"s expensive blouse. Tessie remembered later that she had felt no surprise at the act.
"There, there!" Angie Hatton was saying. "Just poke up the fire, dad.
And get something from the dining room. Oh, I don"t know. To drink, you know. Something...."
Then Old Man Hatton stood over her, holding a small gla.s.s to her lips.
Tessie drank it obediently, made a wry little face, coughed, wiped her eyes, and sat up. She looked from one to the other, like a trapped little animal. She put a hand to her tousled head.
"That"s all right," Angie Hatton a.s.sured her. "You can fix it after a while."
There they were, the three of them: Old Man Hatton with his back to the fire, looking benignly down upon her; Angie seated, with some knitting in her hands, as if entertaining bedraggled, tearstained young ladies at dusk were an everyday occurrence; Tessie, twisting her handkerchief in a torment of embarra.s.sment. But they asked no questions, these two. They evinced no curiosity about this dishevelled creature who had flung herself in upon their decent solitude.
Tessie stared at the fire. She looked up at Old Man Hatton"s face and opened her lips. She looked down and shut them again. Then she flashed a quick look at Angie, to see if she could detect there some suspicion, some disdain. None. Angie Hatton looked--well, Tessie put it to herself, thus: "She looks like she"d cried till she couldn"t cry no more--only inside."
And then, surprisingly, Tessie began to talk. "I wouldn"t never have gone with this fella, only Chuck, he was gone. All the boys"re gone.
It"s fierce. You get scared, sittin" home, waitin", and they"re in France and everywheres, learnin" French and everything, and meetin"
grand people and havin" a fuss made over "em. So I got mad and said I didn"t care, I wasn"t goin" to squat home all my life, waitin"...."
Angie Hatton had stopped knitting now. Old Man Hatton was looking down at her very kindly. And so Tessie went on. The pent-up emotions and thoughts of these past months were finding an outlet at last. These things which she had never been able to discuss with her mother she now was laying bare to Angie Hatton and Old Man Hatton! They asked no questions. They seemed to understand. Once Old Man Hatton interrupted with: "So that"s the kind of fellow they"ve got as escapement-room foreman, eh?"
Tessie, whose mind was working very clearly now, put out a quick hand.
"Say, it wasn"t his fault. He"s a b.u.m, all right, but I knew it, didn"t I? It was me. I didn"t care. Seemed to me it didn"t make no difference who I went with, but it does." She looked down at her hands clasped so tightly in her lap.
"Yes, it makes a whole lot of difference," Angie agreed, and looked up at her father.
At that Tessie blurted her last desperate problem: "He"s learnin" all kind of new things. Me, I ain"t learnin" anything. When Chuck comes home he"ll just think I"m dumb, that"s all. He...."
"What kind of thing would you like to learn, Tessie, so that when Chuck comes home...."
Tessie looked up then, her wide mouth quivering with eagerness. "I"d like to learn to swim--and row a boat--and play ball--like the rich girls--like the girls that"s makin" such a fuss over the soldiers."
Angie Hatton was not laughing. So, after a moment"s hesitation, Tessie brought out the worst of it. "And French. I"d like to learn to talk French."
Old Man Hatton had been surveying his shoes, his mouth grim. He looked at Angie now and smiled a little. "Well, Angie, it looks as if you"d found your job right here at home, doesn"t it? This young lady"s just one of hundreds, I suppose. Hundreds. You can have the whole house for them, if you want it, Angie, and the grounds, and all the money you need. I guess we"ve kind of overlooked the girls. H"m, Angie. What d"you say?"
But Tessie was not listening. She had scarcely heard. Her face was white with earnestness.
"C"n you speak French?"
"Yes," Angie answered.
"Well," said Tessie, and gulped once, "well, how do you say in French: "Give me a piece of bread"? That"s what I want to learn first."
Angie Hatton said it correctly.
"That"s it! Wait a minute! Say it again, will you?"
Angie said it again.
Tessie wet her lips. Her cheeks were smeared with tears and dirt. Her hair was wild and her blouse awry. "Donnay-ma-un-morso-doo-pang," she articulated, painfully. And in that moment, as she put her hand in that of Chuck Mory, across the ocean, her face was very beautiful to see.
ONE HUNDRED PER CENT
They had always had two morning papers--he his, she hers. The _Times_.
Both. Nothing could ill.u.s.trate more clearly the plan on which Mr. and Mrs. T.A. Buck conducted their married life. Theirs was the morning calm and harmony which comes to two people who are free to digest breakfast and the First Page simultaneously with no--"Just let me see the inside sheet, will you, dear?" to mar the day"s beginning.
In the days when she had been Mrs. Emma McChesney, travelling saleswoman for the T.A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company, New York, her perusal of the morning"s news had been, perforce, a hasty process, accomplished between trains, or in a small-town hotel "bus, jolting its way to the depot for the 7.52; or over an American-plan breakfast throughout which seven eighths of her mind was intent on the purchasing possibilities of a prospective nine o"clock skirt buyer. There was no need now of haste, but the habit of years still clung. From eight-thirty to eight thirty-five A.M. Emma McChesney Buck was always in partial eclipse behind the billowing pages of her newspaper. Only the tip of her topmost coil of bright hair was visible. She read swiftly, darting from war news to health hints, from stock market to sport page, and finding something of interest in each. For her there was nothing cryptic in a headline such as "Rudie Slams One Home"; and Do pfd followed by dotted lines and vulgar fractions were to her as easily translated as the Daily Hint From Paris. Hers was the photographic eye and the alert brain that can film a column or a page at a glance.
Across the table her husband sat turned slightly sidewise in his chair, his paper folded in a tidy oblong. He read down one column, top of the next and down that, seriously and methodically; giving to toast or coffee-cup the single-handed and groping attention of one whose interest is elsewhere. The light from the big bay window fell on the printed page and cameoed his profile. After three years of daily contact with it, Emma still caught herself occasionally gazing with appreciation at that clear-cut profile and the clean, shining line of his hair as it grew away from the temple.
"T.A.," she had announced one morning, to his mystification, "you"re the Francis X. Bushman of the breakfast table. I believe you sit that way purposely."
"Francis X--?" He was not a follower of the films.
Emma elucidated. "Discoverer and world"s champion exponent of the side face."
"I might punish you, Emma, by making a pun about its all being Greek to me, but I shan"t." He returned to Page Two, Column Four.
Usually their conversation was comfortably monosyllabic and disjointed, as is the breakfast talk of two people who understand each other.
Amicable silence was the rule, broken only by the rustle of paper, the clink of china, an occasional, "Toast, dear?" And when Buck, in a low, vibrating tone (slightly m.u.f.fled by b.u.t.tered corn m.u.f.fin) said, "Dogs!"
Emma knew he was pursuing the daily _schrecklichkeit_.
Upon this cozy scene Conservation cast his gaunt shadow. It was in June, the year of America"s Great Step, that Emma, examining her household, p.r.o.nounced it fattily degenerate, with complications, and performed upon it a severe and skilful surgical operation. Among the rest:
"One morning paper ought to be enough for any husband and wife who aren"t living on a Boffin basis. There"ll be one copy of the _Times_ delivered at this house in the future, Mr. Buck. We might match pennies for it, mornings."
It lay there on the hall table that first morning, an innocent oblong, its headlines staring up at them with inky eyes.
"Paper, T.A.," she said, and handed it to him.
"You take it, dear."
"Oh, no! No."