Wild Wings

  CHAPTER VII

  DEVELOPMENTS BY MAIL

  After the family had reassembled on the Hill the promised letter fromLarry arrived. He was staying on so long as his services were needed. Theenormous number of victims of the wreck had strained to the uttermost thecity's supply of doctors and nurses, and there was more than enough workfor all. The writer spared them the details of the wreck so far aspossible; indeed, evidently was not anxious to relive the horrors on hisown account. He mentioned a few of the many sad cases only. One of thesewas the instant death of a famous surgeon whose loss to the world seemedtragic and pitifully wasteful to the young doctor. Another was thecrushing to death of a young mother who, with her two children, had beenhappily on their way to meet the husband who had been in South Americafor a year. Larry had made friends with her on the train and played withthe babies who reminded him of his small cousins, Eric and Hester, DoctorPhilip's children.

  A third case he went into more fully, that of a young woman--just a meregirl in appearance though she wore a wedding ring--who had received aterrible blow on the base of her brain which had driven out memoryentirely. She did not know who she was, where she was going, or whenceshe had come. Her physical injuries, otherwise, were not serious, abroken arm and some bad bruises, nothing but what she would easilyrecover from in a short time; but, for all her effort, the past remainedas something on the other side of a strange, blank wall.

  "She tries pitifully hard to remember, and is so sweet and brave we areall devoted to her. I always stop and talk to her when I go by her. Sheseems to cling to me, rather, as if I could help her get things back.Lord knows I wish I could. She is too dainty and fragile a morsel ofhumanity to be left to fight such a thing alone. She is a regular littleDresden shepherdess, with the tiniest feet and hands and the yellowesthair and bluest eyes I ever saw. Her husband must be about crazy, poorchap, not hearing from her. I suppose he will be turning up soon to claimher. I hope so. I don't know what will become of her if he does not.

  "It is late and I must turn in. I don't know when I shall get home. Idon't flatter myself Dunbury will miss me much when it has you. Giveeverybody my love and tell Tony I am awfully sorry I couldn't get tocommencement. I guess maybe she is glad enough to have me alive not tomind much. I'm some glad to be alive myself."

  The letter ended with affectionate greetings to the older doctor from hisnephew and junior assistant. With it came another epistle from the samecity from an old doctor friend who had watched Philip Holiday, himself,grow up, and had immediately set his eye on the younger Holiday, when hehad discovered the relationship.

  "You have a lad to be proud of in that Larry of yours," he wrote. "He ison the job early and late, no smart Alecness, no shirking, no foolquestions, just there on the spot when you want him with cool head,steady nerves and a hand as gentle as a woman's. I like his quality,Phil. Quality shows up at a time like this. He is true Holiday, throughand through, and you can tell him I said so when you see him."

  The doctor smiled, well pleased at this tribute to Ned's son and thisletter, like Larry's, he handed to his wife Margery to read.

  The thirties had touched "Miss Margery" lightly. She was still slim andgirlish-looking. In her simple gown of that forgetmenot blue shade whichher husband particularly loved she seemed scarcely older than she had onthat day, some eight years earlier, when he had found her giving a Fourthof July party to the Hill youngsters, and had begun to lose his heart toher then and there. It was not by shedding care and responsibility,however, that she had kept her youth. It was by no means the easiestthing in the world to be a busy doctor's wife, the mother of two livelychildren and faithful daughter to an invalid and rather "difficult"mother-in-law, as well as to care for a big house and an elastichousehold, which in vacation time included Ned Holiday's children andtheir friends. Needless to say she did not do any painting these days.But there is more than one way of being an artist, and of the art ofsimple, lovely, human living Margery Holiday was past mistress.

  "Doesn't sound much like 'Lazy Larry' these days, does it?" shecommented, giving the letters back to her husband. "I know you are proudof Doctor Fenton's letter, Phil. You ought to be. It is more than alittle due to you that Larry is what he is."

  "We are advertised by our loving wives," he misquoted teasingly. "I havealways observed that the things we approve of in the younger generationare the fruit of seeds we planted. The things we disapprove of slipped ininadvertedly like weeds."

  The same mail that brought Larry's letter brought one also to Ted fromMadeline Taylor, a letter which made him wriggle a little internally,and pull his forelock, as was his habit when things were a bitperturbing.

  Madeline had gone to bed that Sunday night after her meeting with Ted inthe woods, full of the happiest kind of anticipations and shy, foolish,impossible dreams. Her mind told her it was the rankest of nonsense todream about Ted Holiday, but her heart would do it. She knew the affairwith Ted had begun wrong, but she couldn't help hoping it would come outbeautifully right. She couldn't help making believe she had found herprince, a bonny laddie who liked her well enough to play straight withher and to come again to see her.

  She meant to try so hard, so very hard, to make herself into the kind ofgirl he was used to and liked. She cut out the picture of Tony Holidaythat Max Hempel and Dick Carson had studied that day on the train. Shestudied it even harder and hid it away among her very special treasureswhere she could take it out and look at it often and use it as a model.She even snatched her hitherto precious earrings from their pink cottonresting place and hurled them as far as she could into the night. She wasvery sure Tony Holiday did not wear earrings, and she was even surer shehad seen Ted's eyes resting disapprovingly on hers. The earrings had togo. They had gone.

  The next afternoon she had waited for a while patiently by the brook. Thedistant clock struck the half hour, the three quarters, the full hour. NoTed Holiday. By this time her patience had long since evaporated and nowblazed into blind rage. Ted had forgotten his promise, if indeed he hadever meant to keep it. He was with those other girls--his kind. Maybe hewas laughing at her, telling them how "easy" she had been, how gullible.No, he wouldn't! He would be ashamed to admit he had had anything to dowith her. Men did not boast of their conquest of one kind of girl toanother. She had read enough fiction to know that.

  In any case she hated Ted Holiday with a fine fury of resentment. Shewanted to make him suffer, even as she was suffering, though she sensedvaguely that men couldn't suffer that way. It was only women who werecapable of such fine-drawn torture. Men went free.

  From her rage against her recreant cavalier she went on to rage againstlife built on a man-made plan for the benefit of man. Women were hurt, nomatter what they did. Being good wasn't any use. You got hurt all theworse if you were good. It was silly even to try. It was better to shutyour eyes and have a good time.

  Pursuing this reasoning brought Madeline Taylor to the sycamore tree thatnight where Willis Hubbard's car waited. She went with Willis, not toplease him, not to please herself, but to spite Ted Holiday. She hadhinted to Ted she would do something desperate if he failed her. She haddone something desperate, but it was herself, not Ted, that had beenhurt. She discovered that too late.

  The next morning had brought Ted's pleasant, penitent note, explaininghis defection and expressing the hope that they might meet again soon,signed hers "devotedly." Poor Madeline! The cup of her regret was verybitter to the taste as she read that letter of Ted Holiday's.

  Something of her misery and self-abasement crept into the letter to Ted,together with a passionate remorse for having doubted him and her evenmore vehement regret for having gone out with Willis Hubbard. The wholecomplex story of her emotional reactions was of course not written downfor Ted's eyes; but he read quite enough to permit him to guess more thanhe cared to know. Hubbard was evidently something of a rotter. Maybe hewas a bit of a rotter himself. If he hadn't taken the girl out joy ridinghimself she wouldn't have gone with the other two nights la
ter. That wasplain to be seen with half an eye and Ted Holiday was man enough to lookat the fact straight and unblinking for a moment.

  Well! He should worry. It wasn't his fault if Madeline had been foolenough to go out with Hubbard, when she knew what kind of a chap he was.He wasn't her keeper. He didn't see why she had to ask him to forgiveher. It was none of his business. And he wished she hadn't begged soearnestly and humbly that he would see her again soon. He didn't want tosee her. Yet, down underneath, Ted Holiday had an uneasy feeling heought to want it, ought to try to make up to her in some way forsomething which was somehow his fault, even though he did disclaim theresponsibility.

  Two days later came another letter even more disturbing. It seemedMadeline was going to Holyoke again soon to visit her Cousin Emma andwanted Ted to join her. She was "dying" to see him. He could stay atCousin Emma's, but maybe he wouldn't like that because there was a raftof children always under foot and Fred, Emma's husband, was a dreadful"ordinary" person who smoked a smelly pipe and sat round in his shirtsleeves. But if he would come and stay at a hotel they could have awonderful time. She did want to see him so much. Besides, Willispestered her all the time and said if she went away he would come downin his car every night to see her. So if Ted didn't want her to runaround with Willis as he said in his last letter he had better comehimself. She didn't like Willis the way she did Ted, though. Some waysshe hated him and she wished awfully she hadn't ever had anything to dowith him. And finally she liked Ted better than anybody in the world,and would he please, please come to Holyoke, because she wanted him toso very, very much?

  And then the postscript. "The cut is going to leave a scar, I am mostsure. I don't care. I like it. It makes me think of you and what awonderful time we had together that night."

  Ted read the letter coming up the Hill, and for once forebore to whistleas he made the ascent. His mind was busy. A week of Dunbury calm andsweet do-nothing had sufficed to make him undeniably restless. Madeline'sproposal struck him as rather a jolly idea accordingly. After all, shewas a dandy little girl, and he owed her a lot for not making any fussover his nearly killing her. He didn't like this Hubbard fellow, either.He rather thought it was his duty to go and send him about his business.Ted was a bit of a knight, at heart, and felt now the chivalric urge,combining with others less unselfish, to go to the rescue of the damseland set her free of the false besieger.

  Her undisguised admission of her caring for him was a bitdisconcerting, although perhaps also a little sweet to his youthfulmale vanity. Her caring was a complication, made him feel as if somehowhe ought to make up to her for failing her in the big thing by grantingher the smaller favor.

  By the time he had reached the top of the Hill he was rather definitelycommitted in his own mind to the Holyoke trip, if he could throw enoughdust in his uncle's eyes to get away with it.

  Arrived at the house he flung the other mail on the hall table and wentupstairs. As he passed his grandmother's room he noticed that the doorwas ajar and stepped in for a word with her. She looked very still andwhite as she lay there in the big, old fashioned four-poster bed! PoorGranny! It was awfully sad to be old. Ted couldn't quite imagine it forhimself, somehow.

  "'Lo, Granny dear," he greeted, stooping to kiss the withered old cheek."How goes it?"

  "About as usual, dear. Any word from Larry?" There was a plaintive notein Madame Holiday's voice. She was never quite content unless all the"children" were under the family roof-tree. And Larry was particularlydear to her heart.

  "Yes, I just brought a letter for Uncle Phil. The very idea of yourwanting Larry when you have Tony and me, and you haven't had us forso long." Ted pretended to be reproachful and his grandmother reachedfor his hand.

  "I know, dear boy. I am very glad to have you and Tony. But Larry is ahabit, like Philip. You mustn't mind my missing him."

  "Course I don't mind, Granny. I was just jossing. I don't blame you a bitfor missing Larry. He is a mighty good thing to have in the family. WishI were half as valuable."

  "You are, sonny. I am so happy to be having you here all summer."

  "Maybe not quite all summer. I'll be going off for little trips," heprepared her gently.

  "Youth! Youth! Never still--always wanting to fly off somewhere!"

  "We all fly back mighty quick," comforted Ted. "There come the kiddies."

  A patter of small feet sounded down the hall. In the next moment theywere there--sturdy Eric, the six year old, apple-cheeked, incrediblyenergetic, already bidding fair to equal if not to rival his cousin Ted'sreputation for juvenile naughtiness; and Hester, two years younger, arose-and-snow creation, cherubic, adorable, with bobbing silver curls,delectably dimpled elbows and corn flower blue eyes.

  Fresh from the tub and the daily delightful frolic with Daddy, they nowappeared for that other ceremonial known as saying good-night to Granny.

  "Teddy! Teddy! Ride us to Granny," demanded Eric hilariously, jubilant atfinding his favorite tall cousin on the spot.

  "'Es, wide us, wide us," chimed in Hester, not to be outdone.

  "You fiends!" But Ted obediently got down on "all fours" while the smallfolks clambered up on his back and he "rode" them over to the bed, theirbathrobes flying as they went. Arrived at the destination Ted deftlydeposited his load in a giggling, squirming heap on the rug and thengathering up the small Hester, swung her aloft, bringing her down withher rose bud of a mouth close to Granny's pale cheeks.

  "Kiss your flying angel, Granny, before she flies away again."

  "Me! Me!" clamored Eric vociferously, hugging Ted's knees. "Me flyingangel, too!"

  "Not much," objected Ted. "No angel about you. Too, too much solid fleshand bones. Kiss Granny, quick. I hear your parents approaching."

  Philip and Margery appeared on the threshold, seeking their obstreperousoffspring.

  There was another stampede, this time in the direction of the "parents."

  "Ca'y me! Ca'y me, Daddy," chirruped Hester.

  "No, me. Ride me piggy-back," insisted Eric.

  "Such children!" smiled Margery. "Ted, you encourage them. They are morebarbarian than ever when you are here, and they are bad enough undernormal conditions."

  Ted chuckled at that. He and his Aunt Margery were the best of goodfriends. They always had been since Ted had refused to join her RoundTable on the grounds that he might have to be sorry for being bad if hedid, though he had subsequently capitulated, in view of the manifestadvantages accruing to membership in the order.

  "That's right. Lay it to me. I don't believe Uncle Phil was a saint,either, was he, Granny?" he appealed. "I'll bet the kids get some oftheir deviltry by direct line of descent."

  His grandmother smiled.

  "We forget a good deal about our children's naughtinesses when they aregrown up," she said. "I've even forgotten some of yours, Teddy."

  "Lucky," grinned her grandson, stooping to kiss her again. "_Allons,enfants_."

  Later, when the obstreperous ones were in bed and everything quiet Philipand Margery sat together in the hammock, lovers still after eight yearsof strenuous married life and discussed Larry's last letter, which hadcontained the rather astonishing request that he be permitted to bringthe little lady who had forgotten her past to Holiday Hill with him.

  "Queer proposition!" murmured the doctor. "Doesn't sound likesober Larry."

  "I am not so sure. There is a quixotic streak in him--in all youHolidays, for that matter. You can't say much. Think of the stray boysyou have taken in at one time or another, some of them rather dubiousspecimens, I infer."

  Margery's eyes smiled tender raillery at her husband. He chuckled at thearraignment, and admitted its justice. Still, boys were not mysteryladies. She must grant him that. Then he sobered.

  "It is only you that makes me hesitate, Margery mine. You are carryingabout as heavy a burden now as any one woman ought to take upon herself,with me and the house and the children and Granny. And here is this crazynephew of mine proposing the addition to the family of a stranger wh
ohasn't any past and whose future seems wrapped mostly in a nebularhypothesis. It is rather a large order, my dear."

  "Not too large. It isn't as if she were seriously ill, or would be aburden in any way. Besides, it is Larry's home as well as ours, and he soseldom asks anything for himself, and is always ready to help anywhere.Do you really mind her coming, Phil?"

  "Not if you don't. I am glad to agree if it is not going to be too hardfor you. As you say, Larry doesn't ever ask much for himself and I aminterested in the case, anyway. Shall we wire him to bring her, then?"

  "Please do. I shall be very glad."

  "You are a wonder, Margery mine." And the doctor bent and kissed his wifebefore going in to telephone the message to be sent his nephew thatnight, a message bidding him and the little stranger welcome, wheneverthey cared to come to the House on the Hill.

  And far away in Pittsburgh, Larry got the word that night and smiledcontent. Bless Uncle Phil and Aunt Margery! They never failed you, nomatter what you asked of them.