Wild Wings

by Margaret Piper Chalmers

  CHAPTER XXXII

  DWELLERS IN DREAMS

  The last curtain had gone down on the "End of the Rainbow" and TonyHoliday had made an undeniable hit, caught the popular fancy by her youngcharm and vivid personality and fresh talents to such a degree that forthe moment at least even its idol of many seasons, Carol Clay, wasforgotten. The new arriving star filled the whole firmament. Broadway wasready to worship at a new shrine.

  But Broadway did not know that there were two Tony Holidays that night,the happy Tony who had taken its fickle, composite heart by storm and theother Tony half distracted by grief and trapped bewilderment. Tony hadwilled to exile that second self before she stepped out behind the footlights. She knew if she did not she never could play Madge as Madge hadthe right to be played. For her own sake, for Max Hempel's sake becausehe believed in her, for Carol Clay's sake because Tony loved her, shemeant to forget everything but Madge for those few hours. Later she wouldremember that Dick was dying in Mexico, that she had hurt Alan cruellythat afternoon, that she had a sad and vexed problem to solve to whichthere seemed no solution. These things must wait. And they had waited butthey came crowding back upon her the moment the play was over and she sawAlan waiting for her in the little room off the wings.

  He rose to meet her and oblivious of curious eyes about them drewher into his arms and kissed her. And Tony utterly miserable in adaze of conflicting emotions nestled in his embrace unresisting for asecond, not caring any more than Alan himself what any one saw orthought upon seeing.

  "You were wonderful, belovedest," he whispered. "I never saw them gomadder over anybody, not even Carol herself."

  Tony glowed all over at his praise and begged that they might drive alittle in the park before they went home. She had to think. She couldn'tthink in the Hostelry. It stifled her. Nothing loath Alan acquiesced,hailed a cab and gave the necessary orders. For a moment they rode insilence Tony relaxing for the first time in many hours in the comfort ofher lover's presence, his arm around her. Things were hard, terribly hardbut you could not feel utterly disconsolate when the man you loved bestin all the world was there right beside you looking at you with eyes thattold you how much you were beloved in return.

  "Tony, dear, I am going to surprise you," he said suddenly breaking thesilence. "I have decided to go to Mexico."

  "To go to Mexico! Alan! Why?"

  Tony drew away from her companion to study his face, with amazementon her own.

  "To find Carson and look after him. Why else?"

  "But your exhibition? You can't go away now, Alan, even if I would letyou go to Dick that way."

  "Oh, yes I can. The arrangements are all made. Van Slyke can handle thelast stages of the thing far better than I can. I loathe hanging roundand hearing the fools rant about my stuff and wonder what the devil Imeant by this or that or if I didn't mean anything. I am infinitelybetter off three thousand miles away."

  "But even so--I don't want to hurt you or act as if I didn't appreciatewhat you are offering to do--but you hate Dick. I don't see how you couldhelp him."

  "I don't hate him any more, Tony. At least I don't think I do. At anyrate whether I do or don't won't make the slightest bit of difference. Ishall look after him as well as your uncle or your brothers would--betterperhaps because I know Mexico well and how to get things done down there.I know how to get things done in most places."

  "Oh, I know. I have often thought you must have magic at your command theway people fly to do your bidding. It is startling but it is awfullyconvenient."

  "Money magic mostly," he retorted grimly.

  "Partly, not mostly. You are a born potentate. You must have been asultan or a pashaw or something in some previous incarnation. I don'tcare what you are if you will find Dick and see that he gets well. Alan,don't you think--couldn't I--wouldn't it be better--if I went too?"

  There was a sudden gleam in Alan's eyes. The hour was his. He could takeadvantage of the situation, of the girl's anxiety for his cousin, herlove for himself while it was at high tide as it was at this overstimulated hour of excitement. He could marry her. And once the rite wasspoken--not John Massey--not all Holiday Hill combined could take herfrom him. She would be his and his alone to the end. Tony was ripe formadness to-night, overwrought, ready to take any wild leap in the darkwith him. He could make her his. He felt the intoxicating truth quiver inthe touch of her hand, read it in her eager, dark eyes lifted to his forhis answer.

  Alan Massey was unused to putting away temptation but this, perhaps thebiggest and blackest that had ever assailed him he put by.

  "No, dear I'll go alone," he said. "You will just have to trust me, Tony.I swear I'll do everything in the world that can be done for Carson. Letus have just one dance though. I should like it to remember--in Mexico."

  Tony hesitated. It was very late. The Hostelry would ill approve of hergoing anywhere to dance at such an hour. It ill approved of Alan Masseyany way. Still--

  "I am going to-morrow. It is our last chance," he pleaded. "Just onedance, _carissima_. It may have to last--a long, long time."

  And Tony yielded. After all they could not treat this night as if it werelike all the other nights in the calendar. They had the right to theirone more hour of happiness before Alan went away. They had the right tothis one last dance.

  The one dance turned into many before they were through. It seemed toboth as if they dared not stop lest somehow love and happiness shouldstop too with the end of the music. They danced on and on "divinely" asAlan had once called it. Tony thought the rest of his prophecy wasfulfilled at last, that they also loved each other divinely, as no man orwoman had ever loved since time began.

  But at last this too had to come to an end as perfect moments must inthis finite world and Alan and Tony went out of the brilliantly lightedrestaurant into white whirls of snow. For a storm had started while theyhad been inside and was now well in progress. All too soon the cabdeposited them at the Hostelry. In the dimly lit hall Alan drew the girlinto his arms and kissed her passionately then suddenly almost flung herfrom him, muttered a curt good-by and before Tony hardly realized he wasgoing, was gone, swallowed up in the night and storm. Alone Tony put herhands over her hot cheeks. So this was love. It was terrible, but oh--itwas wonderful too.

  Soberly after a moment she went to change the damning OUT opposite hername in the hall bulletin just as the clock struck the shocking hour ofthree. But lo there was no damning OUT visible, only a meek and proper INafter her name. For all the bulletin proclaimed Antoinette Holiday mighthave been for hours wrapt in innocent slumber instead of speeding awaythe wee' sma' hours in a public restaurant in the arms of a lover at whomMadame Grundy and her allies looked awry. Somebody had tampered with thething to save Tony a reprimand or worse. But who? Jean? No, certainly notJean. Jean's conscience was as inelastic as a yard stick. Whoever hadcommitted the charitable act of mendacity it couldn't have been Jean.

  But when Tony opened her own door and switched on the light there wasJean curled up asleep in the big arm chair. The sudden flare of lightroused the sleeper and she sat up blinking.

  "Wherever have you been, Tony? I have been worried to death about you.I've been home from the theater for hours. I couldn't think what hadhappened to you."

  "I am sorry you worried. You needn't have. I was with Alan, of course."

  "Tony, people say dreadful things about Mr. Massey. Aren't you everafraid of him yourself?" Jean surveyed the younger girl withtroubled eyes.

  Tony flung off her cloak impatiently.

  "Of course I am not afraid. People don't know him when they say suchthings about him. You needn't ever worry, Jean. I am safer with Alan thanwith any one else in the world. I'd know that to-night if I never knew itbefore. We were dancing. I knew it was late but I didn't care. Iwouldn't have missed those dances if they had told me I had to pack mytrunk and leave to-morrow." Thus spoke the rebel always ready to fly outlike a Jack-in-the box from under the lid in Tony Holiday.

  "They won't," said Jean in a
queer, compressed little voice.

  "Jean! Was it you that fixed that bulletin?"

  "Yes, it was. I know it wasn't a nice thing to do but I didn't want themto scold you just now when you were so worried about Dick andeverything. I thought you would be in most any minute any way and Iwaited up myself to tell you how I loved the play and how proud I was ofyou. Then when you didn't come for so long I got really scared and thenI fell asleep and--"

  Tony came over and stopped the older girl's words with a kiss.

  "You are a sweet peach, Jean Lambert, and I am awfully grateful to youfor straining your conscience like that for my sake and awfully sorry Iworried you. I am afraid I always do worry good, sensible, proper people.I'm made that way, mad north north west like Hamlet," she addedwhimsically. "Maybe we Holidays are all mad that much, excepting UnclePhil of course. He's all that keeps the rest of us on the track of sanityat all. But Alan is madder still. Jean, he is going to Mexico to takecare of Dick."

  "Mr. Massey is going to Mexico to take care of Dick!" Jean' stared. "Why,Tony--I thought--"

  "Naturally. So did I. Who wouldn't think him the last person in the worldto do a thing like that? But he is going and it is his idea not mine. Iwanted to go too but he wouldn't let me," she added.

  Jean gasped.

  "Tony! You would have married him when your uncle--when everybodydoesn't want you to?"

  To Jean Lambert's well ordered, carefully fenced in mind such wild mentalleaps as Tony Holiday's were almost too much to contemplate. But worsewas to come.

  "Married him! Oh, I don't know. I didn't think about that. I would justhave gone with him. There wouldn't have been time to get a license. Ofcourse I couldn't though on account of the play."

  Jean gasped again. If it hadn't been for the play this astounding youngperson before her would have gone gallivanting off with one man to whomshe was not married to the bedside, thousands of miles away, of anotherman to whom she was also not married. Such simplicity of mental processessurpassed any complexity Jean Lambert could possibly conceive.

  "Alan wouldn't let me," repeated the astounding Tony. "I suppose it isbetter so. By to-morrow I will probably agree with him. When the wind issoutherly I know a hawk from a handsaw too. But the wind isn't southerlyto-night. It wasn't when I was dancing nor afterward," she added with aflaming color in her cheeks remembering that moment in the Hostelry hallwhen wisdom had mattered very little to her in comparison with love. "Oh,Jean, what if something dreadful should happen to him down there! I can'tlet him go. I can't. But Dick mustn't die alone either. Oh, what shall Ido? What shall I do?"

  And suddenly Tony threw herself face down on the bed sobbing great, heartrending sobs, but whether she was crying for Dick or Alan or herself orall three Jean was unable to decipher. Perhaps Tony did not know herself.

  The next morning when Tony awoke Alan had already left for his longjourney, but a great box full of roses told her she had been his lastthought. One by one she lifted them out of the box--great, gorgeous,blood red beauties, royal, Tony thought, like the royal lover who hadsent them. The only message with the flowers was a bit of verse, a poemof Tagore's whom Alan loved and had taught Tony to love too.

  You are the evening cloud floating in the sky of my dreams. I paint you and fashion you with my love longings. You are my own, my own, Dweller in my endless dreams!

  Your feet are rosy-red with the glow of my heart's desire, Gleaner of my sunset songs! Your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of my wine of pain. You are my own, my own, Dweller in my lonesome dreams!

  With the shadow of my passion have I darkened your eyes, Haunter of the depth of my gaze! I have caught you and wrapt you, my love, in the net of my music. You are my own, my own, Dweller in my deathless dreams!

  As she read the exquisite lines Antoinette Holiday knew it was alltrue. The poet might have written his poem for her and Alan. Her lipswere indeed bitter-sweet with the taste of his wine of pain, her eyeswere darkened by his shadows. He had caught her and wrapt her in thenet of his love, which was a kind of music in itself--a music onedanced to. She was his, dweller in his dreams as he was always to dwellin hers. It was fate.