Wild Wings

by Margaret Piper Chalmers

  CHAPTER IX

  TED SEIZES THE DAY

  The next morning Ted strolled into his uncle's office to ask if thelatter had any objections to his accepting an invitation to a house-partyfrom Hal Underwood, a college classmate, at the latter's home nearSpringfield.

  The doctor considered a moment before answering. He knew all about theUnderwoods and knew that his erratic nephew could not be in a safer,pleasanter place. Also his quick wit saw a chance to put the screws onthe lad in connection with the tutoring business.

  "I suppose your June allowance is able to float your traveling expenses,"he remarked less guilelessly than the remark sounded.

  The June allowance was, it seemed, the missing link.

  "I thought maybe you would be willing to allow me a little extra thismonth on account of commencement stunts. It is darned expensive sendingnosegays to sweet girl graduates. I couldn't help going broke. Honest Icouldn't, Uncle Phil." Then as his uncle did not leap at the suggestionoffered, the speaker changed his tack. "Anyway, you would be willing tolet me have my July money ahead of time, wouldn't you?" he ingratiated."It is only ten days to the first."

  But Doctor Holiday still chose to be inconveniently irrelevant.

  "Have you any idea how much my bill was for repairing the car?" heasked.

  Ted shook his head shamefacedly, and bent to examine a picture in amagazine which lay on the desk. He wasn't anxious to have the carincident resurrected. He had thought it decently buried by this time,having heard no more about it.

  "It was a little over a hundred dollars," continued the doctor.

  The boy looked up, genuinely distressed.

  "Gee, Uncle Phil! It's highway robbery."

  "Scarcely. All things considered, it was a very fair bill. A hundreddollars is a good deal to pay for the pleasure of nearly getting yourselfand somebody else killed, Ted."

  Ted pulled his forelock and had nothing to say.

  "Were you in earnest about paying up for that particular bit offolly, son?"

  "Why, yes. At least I didn't think it would be any such sum as that," Tedhedged. "I'll be swamped if I try to pay it out of my allowance. I can'tcome out even, as it is. Couldn't you take it out of my own money--what'scoming to me when I'm of age?"

  "I could, if getting myself paid were the chief consideration. As ithappens, it isn't. I'm sorry if I seem to be hard on you, but I am goingto hold you to your promise, even if it pinches a bit. I think you knowwhy. How about it, son?"

  "I suppose it has to go that way if you say so," said Ted a littlesulkily. "Can I pay it in small amounts?"

  "How small? Dollar a year? I'd hate to wait until I was a hundred andforty or so to get my money back."

  The boy grinned reluctantly, answering the friendly twinkle in hisuncle's eyes. He was relieved that a joke had penetrated what had begunto appear to be an unpleasantly jestless interview. He hated to becalled to account. Like many another older sinner he liked dancing, butfound paying the piper an irksome business.

  "Nonsense, Uncle Phil! I meant real paying. Will ten dollars a month do?"

  "It will, provided you don't try to borrow ahead each month from thenext one."

  "I won't," glibly. "If you will--" The boy broke off and had the grace tolook confused, realizing he had been about to do the very thing he hadpromised in the same breath not to do. "Then that means I can't go toHal's," he added soberly.

  He felt sober. There was more than Hal and the house-party involved,though the latter had fallen in peculiarly fortuitous with his otherplans. He had rashly written Madeline he would be in Holyoke next week asshe desired, and the first of July and his allowance would still be justout of reach next week. It was a confounded nuisance, to say the least,being broke just now, with Uncle Phil turned stuffy.

  "No, I don't want you to give up your house-party, though that rests withyou. I'll make a bargain with you. I'll advance your whole July allowanceminus ten dollars Saturday morning."

  Ted's face cleared, beamed like sudden sunshine on a cloudy March day.

  "You will! Uncle Phil, you certainly are a peach!" And in his exuberancehe tossed his cap to the ceiling, catching it deftly on his nose as itdescended.

  "Hold on. Don't rejoice too soon. It was to be a bargain, you know. Youhave heard only one side."

  "Oh--h!" The exclamation was slightly crestfallen.

  "I understand that you fell down on most of your college work thisspring. Is that correct?"

  This was a new complication and just as he had thought he was safelyout of the woods, too. Ted hung his head, gave consent to his uncle'squestion by silence and braced himself for a lecture, though he was alittle relieved that he need not bring up the subject of thatinconvenient flunking of his, himself; that his uncle was alreadyprepared, whoever it was that had told tales. The lecture did notcome, however.

  "Here is the bargain. I will advance the money as I said, providedthat as soon as you get back from Hal's you will make arrangements totutor with Mr. Caldwell this summer, in all the subjects you failed inand promise to put in two months of good, solid cramming, no half wayabout it."

  "Gee, Uncle Phil! It's vacation."

  "You don't need a vacation. If all I hear of you is true, or even half ofit, you made your whole college year one grand, sweet vacation. What isthe answer? Want time to think the proposition over?"

  "No--o. I guess I'll take you up. I suppose I'll have to tutor anyway ifI don't want to drop back a class, and I sure don't," Ted admittedhonestly. "Unless you'll let me quit and you won't. It is awfully tough,though. You never made Tony or Larry kill themselves studying invacations. I don't see--"

  "Neither Tony or Larry ever flunked a college course. It remained for youto be the first Holiday to wear a dunce cap."

  Ted flushed angrily at that. The shot went home, as the doctor intendedit should. He knew when to hit and how to do it hard, as Larry hadtestified.

  "Fool's cap if you like, Uncle Phil. I am not a dunce."

  "I rather think that is true. Anyway, prove it to us this summer andthere is no one who will be gladder than I to take back the aspersion. Isit understood then? You have your house-party and when you come back youare pledged to honest work, no shirking, no requests for time off, nocomplaints. Have I your word?"

  Ted considered. He thought he was paying a stiff price for hishouse-party and his lark with Madeline. He could give up the first,though a fellow always had a topping time at Hal's; but he couldn't quitesee himself owning ignominiously to Madeline that he couldn't keep hispromise to her because of empty pockets. Moreover, as he had admitted, hewould have to tutor anyway, probably, and he might as well get some gainout of the pain.

  "I promise, Uncle Phil."

  "Good. Then that is settled. I am not going to say anything more aboutthe flunking. You know how we all feel about it. I think you have senseenough and conscience enough to see it about the way the rest of us do."

  Ted's eyes were down again now. Somehow Uncle Phil always made him feelworse by what he didn't say than a million sermons from other peoplewould have done. He would have gladly have given up the projected journeyand anything else he possessed this moment if he could have had a cleanslate to show. But it was too late for that now. He had to take theconsequences of his own folly.

  "I see it all right, Uncle Phil," he said looking up. "Trouble is I neverseem to have the sense to look until--afterward. You are awfully decentabout it and letting me go to Hal's and--everything. I--I'll be goneabout a week, do you mind?"

  "No. Stay as long as you like. I am satisfied with your promise to makegood when you do come."

  Ted slipped away quickly then. He was ashamed to meet his uncle's kindeyes. He knew he was playing a crooked game with stacked cards. He hadn'texactly lied--hadn't said a word that wasn't strictly true, indeed. Hewas going to Hal's, but he had let his uncle think he was going to staythere the whole week whereas in reality he meant to spend the greaterpart of the time in Madeline Taylor's society, which was not in thebargain at all
. Well he would make up later by keeping his promise aboutthe studying. He would show them Larry wasn't the only Holiday who couldmake good. The dunce cap jibe rankled.

  And so, having satisfied his sufficiently elastic conscience, he departedon Saturday for Springfield and adjacent points.

  He had the usual "topping" time at Hal's and tore himself away with theutmost reluctance from the house-party, had half a mind, indeed, to wireMadeline he couldn't come to Holyoke. But after all that seemed rather amean thing to do after having treated her so rough before, and in the endhe had gone, only one day later than he had promised.

  It was characteristic that, arrived at his destination, he straightwayforgot the pleasures he was foregoing at Hal's and plungedwhole-heartedly into amusing himself to the utmost with Madeline Taylor._Carpe Diem_ was Ted Holiday's motto.

  Madeline had indeed proved unexpectedly pretty and attractive when sheopened the door to him on Cousin Emma's little box of a front porch, cladall in white and wearing no extraneous ornament of any sort, blushingdelightfully and obviously more than glad of his coming. He would nothave been Ted Holiday if he hadn't risen to the occasion. The last girlin sight was usually the only girl for him so long as she _was_ in sightand sufficiently jolly and good to look upon.

  A little later Madeline donned a trim tailored black sailor hat and apretty and becoming pale green sweater and the two went down the stepstogether, bound for an excursion to the park. As they descended Ted'shand slipped gallantly under the girl's elbow and she leaned on it everso little, reveling in the ceremony and prolonging it as much aspossible. Well she knew that Cousin Emma and the children were peeringout from behind the curtains of the front bedroom upstairs, and that Mrs.Bascom and her stuck up daughter Lily had their faces glued to the panenext door. They would all see that this was no ordinary beau, but a realswell like the magnificent young men in the movies. Perhaps as shedescended Cousin Emma's steps and went down the path between the tigerlilies and peonies that flanked the graveled path with Ted Holiday besideher, Madeline Taylor had her one perfect moment.

  Only the "ordinary" Fred, on hearing his wife's voluble descriptionslater of Madeline's "grand" young man failed to be suitably impressed."Them swells don't mean no girl no good no time," he had summed up hisviews with sententious accumulation of negatives.

  But little enough did either Ted or Madeline reck of Fred's or any otheropinion as they fared their blithe and care-free way that gala week. Therest of the world was supremely unimportant as they went canoeing andmotoring and trolley riding and mountain climbing and "movieing"together. Madeline strove with all her might to dress and act and _be_ asnearly like those other girls after whom she was modeling herself aspossible, to do nothing, which could jar on Ted in any way or remind himthat she was "different." In her happiness and sincere desire to pleaseshe succeeded remarkably well in making herself superficially at leastvery much like Ted's own "kind of girl" and though with true masculineobtuseness he was entirely unaware of the conscious effort she wasputting into the performance nevertheless he enjoyed the results in fulland played up to her undeniable charms with his usual debonair andheedless grace and gallantry.

  The one thing that had been left out of the program for lack of suitableopportunity was dancing, an omission not to be tolerated by two strenuousand modern young persons who would rather fox trot than eat any day.Accordingly on Thursday it was agreed that they should repair to theWhite Swan, a resort down the river, famous for its excellent cuisine,its perfect dance floor and its "snappy" negro orchestra. Both Ted andMadeline knew that the Swan had also a reputation of another lessdesirable sort, but both were willing to ignore the fact for the sake ofenjoying the "jolliest jazz on the river" as the advertisement read. Thedance was the thing.

  It was, indeed. The evening was decidedly the best yet, as both averred,pirouetting and spinning and romping through one fox trot and one stepafter another. The excitement of the music, the general air ofexhilaration about the place and their own high-pitched mood made theoccasion different from the other gaieties of the week, merrier, madder,a little more reckless.

  Once, seeing a painted, over-dressed or rather under-dressed, girl in thearms of a pasty-faced, protruding-eyed roue, both obviously under thespell of too much liquid inspiration, Ted suffered a momentary revulsionand qualm of conscience. He shouldn't have brought Madeline here. Itwasn't the sort of place to bring a girl, no matter how good the musicwas. Oh, well! What did it matter just this once? They were there now andthey might as well get all the fun they could out of it. The musicstarted up, he held out his hand to Madeline and they wheeled into themaze of dancers, the girl's pliant body yielding to his arms, her eyesbrilliant with excitement. They danced on and on and it was amazingly andimprudently late when they finally left the Swan and went home to CousinEmma's house.

  Ted had meant to leave Madeline at the gate, but somehow he lingered andfollowed the girl out into the yard behind the house where they seatedthemselves in the hammock in the shade of the lilac bushes. And suddenly,without any warning, he had her in his arms and was kissing hertempestuously.

  It was only for a moment, however. He pulled himself together, hotcheeked and ashamed and flung himself out of the hammock. Madeline satvery still, not saying a word, as she watched him march to and frobetween the beds of verbena and love-lies-bleeding and portulaca.Presently he paused beside the hammock, looking down at the girl.

  "I am going home to-morrow," he said a little huskily.

  Madeline threw out one hand and clutched one of the boy's in afeverish clasp.

  "No! No!" she cried. "You mustn't go. Please don't, Ted."

  "I've got to," stolidly.

  "Why?"

  "You know why."

  "You mean--what you did--just now?"

  He nodded miserably.

  "That doesn't matter. I'm not angry. I--I liked it."

  "I am afraid it does matter. It makes a mess of everything, and it's allmy fault. I spoiled things. I've got to go."

  "But you will come back?" she pleaded.

  He shook his head.

  "It is better not, Madeline. I'm sorry."

  She snatched her hand away from his, her eyes shooting sparks of anger.

  "I hate you, Ted Holiday. You make me care and then you go away and leaveme. You are cruel--selfish. I hate you--hate you."

  Ted stared down at her, helpless, miserable, ashamed. No man knows whatto do with a scene, especially one which his own folly has precipitated.

  "Willis Hubbard is coming down to-morrow night and if you don't stay asyou promised I'll go to the Swan with him. He has been teasing me to gofor ages and I wouldn't, but I will now, if you leave me. I'll--I'll doanything."

  Ted was worried. He did not like the sound of the girl's threats thoughhe wasn't moved from his own purpose.

  "Don't go to the Swan with Hubbard, Madeline. You mustn't."

  "Why not? You took me."

  "I know I did, but that is different," he finished lamely.

  "I don't see anything very different," she retorted hotly.

  Ted bit his lip. Remembering his own recent aberration, he did not see asmuch difference as he would have liked to see himself.

  "I suppose you wouldn't have taken _your_ kind of girl to the Swan,"taunted Madeline.

  "No, I--"

  It was a fatal admission. Ted hadn't meant to make it so bluntly, but itwas out. The damage was done.

  A demon of rage possessed the girl. Beside herself with anger she sprangto her feet and delivered a stinging blow straight in the boy's face.Then, her mood changing, she fell back into the hammock sobbing bitterly.

  For a moment Ted was too much astonished by this fish-wife exhibitionof temper even to be angry with himself. Then a hot wave of wrath andshame surged over him. He put up his hand to his cheek as if to brushaway the indignity of the blow. But he was honest enough to realizethat maybe he had deserved the punishment, though not for the reasonthe girl had dealt it.

  Looking down at he
r in her racked misery, his resentment vanished andan odd impersonal kind of pity for her possessed him instead, thoughher attraction was gone forever. He could see the scar on her forehead,and it troubled and reproached him vaguely, seemed a symbol of a deeperwound he had dealt her, though never meaning any harm. He bent overher, gently.

  "Forgive me, Madeline," he said. "I am sorry--sorry foreverything. Goodby."

  In a moment he was gone, past the portulaca and love-lies-bleeding, pastCousin Emma's unlit parlor windows, down the walk between the tigerlilies and peonies, out into the street. And Madeline, suddenlyrealizing that she was alone, rushed after him, calling his name softlyinto the dark. But only the echo of his firm, buoyant young feet cameback to her straining ears. She fled back to the garden and, throwingherself, face down, on the dew drenched grass, surrendered to a passionof tearless grief.

  Ted astonished his uncle, first by coming home a whole day earlier thanhe had been expected and second, by announcing his intention of seeingRobert Caldwell and making arrangements about the tutoring that veryday. He was more than usually uncommunicative about his house-partyexperiences the Doctor thought and fancied too that just at first afterhis return the boy did not meet his eyes quite frankly. But this soonpassed away and he was delighted and it must be confessed considerablyastounded too to perceive that Ted really meant to keep his word aboutthe studying and settled down to genuine hard work for perhaps the firsttime, in his idle, irresponsible young life. He had been prepared to puton the screws if necessary. There had been no need. Ted had applied hisown screws and kept at his uncongenial task with such grim determinationthat it almost alarmed his family, so contrary was his conduct to hisusual light-hearted shedding of all obligations which he could, by hookor crook, evade.

  Among other things to be noted with relief the doctor counted the factthat there were no more letters from Florence. Apparently that flamewhich had blazed up rather brightly at first had died down as a good manyothers had. Doctor Holiday was particularly glad in this case. He had notliked the idea of his nephew's running around with a girl who would bewilling to go "joy-riding" with him after midnight, and still less had heliked the idea of his nephew's issuing such invitations to any kind ofgirl. Youth was youth and he had never kept a very tight rein on any ofNed's children, believing he could trust them to run straight in themain. Still there were things one drew the line at for a Holiday.