Viña Delmar
Hallington c. bond at the age of twelve had disapproved of ice cream, moving pictures and lemon meringue pie. He had never touched dice, took on a sickly pallor at the sight of cigarettes and simply loved every minute that he spent in the schoolroom.
At eighteen he founded the Anti-Vice League of North Angle, and at twenty-four he was the grimmest, busiest reforming killjoy of the town. He disapproved of everything that gave anyone pleasure—especially blondes. He believed that it was his special mission in life to purify the world and he began with poor little North Angle. He closed the one motion picture house, he stopped Sunday Victrola playing throughout the town, and he gave Lady Nicotine a terrible battle. Hallington C. Bond and his crew of undertakers put the lid on everything—on everything, that is except Teddy Tremont. And Hallington disapproved greatly of Teddy! Teddy had red hair, and you can imagine what a demoralizing influence red hair would be in a town like North Angle. Too, she had greenish gray eyes that sparkled every day—including the Sabbath and holy days—and a trim little figure that even the perfect Hallington C. Bond didn’t quite loathe.
But the worst of it all was that Teddy Tremont did not stand in awe of Mr. Bond, first, because she had known him back in the day when he had objected to nothing—meaning before he could talk. Second, because one night when the moon hung low over North Angle and the little coo-coo birds had called plainly to each other, Hallington C. Bond had held Teddy in his arms and begged her to be his. Translated, this means that the flaming-haired beauty wore a perfectly proper engagement ring in the generally accepted location and walked to church with Hallington C. Bond.
But the date of the wedding was set somewhere in the millennium, for Hallington, the dear thing, had an income of only twenty-two dollars a week from his father’s estate and he could not spare the time from his reforming to go to work. But he assured Teddy daily that something cheerful was bound to happen; the oil well he had invested in was going to spout Omega or Aunt Katherine was going to die young. So Teddy waited.
Hallington Bond was really not bad to look at. He was tall and rather thin, of course, that half-fed look is part of every reformer’s equipment. But he had nice dark eyes and hair that would curl though he kept it half drowned to discourage it. Once by mistake Hallington smiled and Teddy discovered that he had a gorgeous set of white and shining teeth. Just between you and me and the cover design, Teddy cared a lot for Hallington, but she would have cared heaps more if he hadn’t served his kisses with a neat garniture of cracked ice.
What Hallington saw in Teddy to love would be obvious to no one but a psychoanalyst. Apparently, he was not in love with what she termed her “wise cracks” nor could it have been her gay spirits, for Hallington was at war with gay spirits. Perhaps at the age of six when he had triumphantly carried the news that Teddy was playing truant from Sunday school, it had seeped into his tiny consciousness that Teddy needed a firm and righteous protector; and that now this beauteous thought was blossoming. Or it may have been that Hallington Bond somewhere in the ice house that he called his brain, cherished a weakness for “wise cracks” and red hair—you never can tell about those things.
One lovely morning Hallington’s phone rang. It did that often so don’t become alarmed. But this morning it was a trifle early. Hallington hustled from his bed and crossed the hall to the instrument. He might have had his phone installed at the side of his bed but to be comfortable is to be sinful.
“Hello,” he snapped.
“Good morning, Hal, don’t bark at me.” It was, of course, the future Mrs. Bond.
“I didn’t mean to, dear, I assure you,” Hallington hastily apologized, “but I have just arisen.”
“Are you in your pajamas?” Teddy wanted to know.
“Teddy, a thousand times I have requested you to choose your words—”
“No lecture now, Kid. I just asked you a simple question. Are you in your pajamas?”
“Teddy, I—”
“Are you?”
“Heavens. Yes!”
“Well, don’t get peevish. I just thought that if you were I’d tell you to pull down your shade.”
And then she clicked off. Such a fiancée for the man who was going to make America purer than Ivory Soap!
“Was that Theodora?” called Hallington’s aunt.
“Yes.”
“What did she want so early?”
“Eh-eh,” Hallington hesitated a second and then replied, “She wanted to tell me how to keep my worst self hidden from my neighbors.” Which really wasn’t so bad coming from Hallington C. Bond.
Then the busy day began. There was the hotel register to be examined, illicit liquor to be hunted for, two newcomers in the town to be observed and Mrs. Sennet’s daughter to be lectured for wearing a short skirt. Hallington C. Bond climbed wearily into his clothes. The life of a reformer is not all gin sampling—but most of it is.
Something accomplished, something done, at evening North Angle’s energetic reformer turned his steps toward the Tremont house and Teddy.
As he entered she rose quickly and came toward him. In the brief instant that he permitted himself to regard Teddy’s charms, he noticed that her Grade A ankles were encased in dangerously sheer hose and that her arms were undoubtedly bare.
“Oh, Hal, dear, I’m so excited,” she bubbled, “Jimmy Greer—that boy I met in Boston last winter—is over at West Traymore and he’s calling here tonight.”
Hallington C. Bond raised his eyebrows, covered a well-shaped yawn and said, “Don’t enthuse so, Teddy. It’s mildly vulgar. Did you say this Greer person was coming here?”
“Yes, and you needn’t pretend that you don’t mind. I can see Old Lady Jealousy biting holes in you.”
“I, jealous? My dear Teddy, jealousy is the tomb of affection, the grave of trust, the morgue of sincere love.”
“Yes, and the natural emotion of a real man. Now, be jealous of Jimmy Greer or I’ll never speak to you again.”
“The penalty is tremendously extreme, dear girl, but the request is intensely repellent to my finer sensibilities.”
And then Jimmy Greer arrived. You’ve seen him, everybody has. Well-tailored, straw-hatted—bubbling over with current slang and hand-picked, seedless compliments. He knew all the vaudeville headliners, hinted at “dirt he could dish” if so-and-so wasn’t his dearest pal and spoke of Nazimova as a “good kid who knew how to sell her stuff.”
Hallington took an early departure, knowing full well that he could trust Teddy with vaudeville’s kid brother. He could, that much I will say for Teddy.
For two weeks, Jimmy Greer hung around West Traymore and made frequent trips into North Angle to see Miss Tremont. It might have annoyed Hallington greatly but just around that time Hallington C. Bond was bursting into the limelight with his latest reform movement, namely, the Prohibition of Seductive Perfume Aromas. Every newspaper in the country was printing news of Hallington Bond’s perfume campaign and he and his little band of hearse drivers were busier than one-arm paper hangers suppressing sinful, sensuous perfumes.
“That’s a great idea,” Teddy Tremont complained, “Am I supposed to sprinkle camphor over my clothes or anoint myself with the juice of the royal onion?”
“Neither, my dear. All I ask is that you do not use this vile, hell-inspired liquid that fires the senses and creates havoc where peace and tranquillity belong.”
Teddy sighed. “Oh, Hallington, my dear pleasure assassin, don’t tell me that anything ever fired your senses. If so, what?”
Hallington registered dismay. “You are speaking in a manner most unbecoming to a young lady,” he said, “and I trust you will rid yourself of that devil-made stuff called ‘Lillith’s Kiss.’”
“Devil-made? Does he get twelve dollars a bottle for all his stuff?”
That was only one distressing interview with Teddy, others followed. For Teddy developed an inexplainable passion for the Hot Tamale. Now, the Hot Tamale was a magazine of dubious character filled from cover to cover with ladies who forever fought losing battles for their honor. It was one of those books that describe in detail what a nice girl wouldn’t even imagine, and this was the thing that Teddy Tremont actually liked.
“I would be reconciled, dear girl, if the stories were skillfully constructed,” Hallington told her sorrowfully, “But from what I have heard they have no redeeming trait.”
“They are very clever,” Teddy insisted. “Take this for instance.” Teddy opened the Hot Tamale and began reading aloud, “‘His arms went tight about her and Gladys fought her passion with a fierceness that startled them both. She felt his warm breath on her cheek and a mad, soul-stirring desire swept over her to surrender to this primitive joy that had burst the dam of convention at last. His fingers twined about hers and she knew that he read surrender in her trembling, white hand. He led her toward his cabin and—’”
“Stop!” shrieked Hallington C. Bond.
“Why, you evil-minded thing,” said Teddy, “They were husband and wife all the time.”
“It makes no difference,” Hallington blustered. “Those stories are rot. There is nothing to them, I could write one only half trying.”
“You could?”
“Certainly.”
“I don’t believe it. Besides one is nothing. Perhaps by a superhuman effort you could imagine one tricky situation, but these authors are always thinking up new, thrilling things—and that takes brains.”
“Look here, Teddy, I don’t make wagers—it isn’t gentlemanly—but I promise you that I can write three stories with novel ideas that would reduce these mad ravings to nothing.”
“You can?”
“Yes, and with no effort,” Hallington bragged.
“Hm, I’d like to see those stories.”
“You will,” Hallington promised.
Then the clock struck nine-thirty and Hallington kissed Teddy on the forehead and started for home. The next days were busy ones for Hallington. Two girls in North Angle dyed their hair, one smoked a cigarette and a Mr. and Mrs. John Smith registered at the hotel. Besides all this hubbub the Perfume Bill was up in Washington and Hallington was a popular guy. Added to this Teddy went to New York. Hallington objected that New York was no place for a young and attractive girl.
“Oh, yes, it is, dear. You’d be surprised,” cooed Teddy—and went.
They wrote to each other every day and it certainly seemed that Teddy was having a grand time in the big city. Jimmy Greer called on her frequently and he took her to the Statue of Liberty, the Palais Royale and the Aquarium. Hallington was broadminded, he didn’t object—much.
It is surprising that he had any time to object, for after his day’s work was done there was a certain mysterious business with a dictionary and a thesaurus that held his attention far into the wee, small hours. If anyone had gazed over the shoulder of North Angle’s famous reformer, strange words would have met the curious one’s eyes. For Hallington C. Bond was specializing in “passionate kisses” and “bosoms that rose and fell” to say nothing of the “crimson marvel that was Ardrita Sinclair’s mouth.”
Often as he strung adjectives together a frown would ruffle the smoothness of his brow, and it didn’t look as though Hallington was doing it with “no effort.”
But one night, with a sigh of satisfaction, he regarded three neat little mountains of typewriting. Great Caesar’s ghost! if anyone had ever seen the words at the top of these mountains. For one read, “When Satan Loved,” the second simply murmured, “I’m Glad To See You’re Back,” but the third threw discretion to the winds and proclaimed itself “A Woman of Thirteen Loves.”
Hallington patted them tenderly and helped them into a capacious envelope. There is nothing odd in the fact that Teddy Tremont removed them from this very same envelope the next day and smothered a desire to scream with laughter.
She read the first and a thoughtful expression crept into her eyes.
“‘When Satan Loved,’” she murmured. “That’s a darn tricky title.”
She gathered the manuscripts together and flew with them to her room. She read each one over twice and her thoughtful expression grew several shades more thoughtful. If her dear betrothed could have seen her at the moment he perhaps would have been mildly concerned; but a glimpse of her an hour later would have turned the blood in his virtuous veins to iced Lipton’s. For Teddy Tremont with a funny little smile on the “crimson marvel that was her mouth” entered the offices of the Hot Tamale magazine and submitted three stories. Each bore the legend “by H. Bond” but Teddy left her own address.
She was terribly excited after doing this and in no humor to receive a proposal; but no one had informed Jimmy Greer of her feelings so he chose that evening to tell her the joke about orange blossoms and parlor furniture. She listened as any lady would do under the circumstances but she gave him an emphatic no in answer.
“You’ll be sorry,” Jimmy modestly warned her. “I’m a good fellow, Ted, I’d be a better husband than old Bad News up in North Angle.”
Which reminded Teddy of something. “Jimmy, do you know any newspaper people?” she asked.
“Yes, but hell! they don’t make good wives.”
“Forget Lohengrin for a few minutes and listen. I’m not going to marry you, and I’m not going to be a sister to you, but I may want to meet a newspaper fellow in a week or two.”
“Where’s the connection?”
“There isn’t any, but stick around. You’ll probably come in handy.”
So Jimmy stuck around while Hallington Bond reformed North Angle, while Teddy Tremont enjoyed New York, and while Editor Roberts of the Hot Tamale read and actually liked H. Bond’s trio of naughty tales.
And so it happened that one day Teddy received a letter from the esteemed Mr. Roberts. All three stories had been purchased, and a fascinating, pale green slip of paper fluttered into Teddy’s lap. Mr. Roberts expressed a desire to meet the young author and his wording conveyed more than an idle curiosity. Teddy reached for the telephone and called Jimmy Greer.
“When can I meet that newspaper person?” she asked.
“What newspaper person?”
“I’m not particular but I have a good story for someone.”
It has been my unhappy discovery that men don’t always rush to fulfill a lady’s slightest whim, and Teddy made the same discovery when she sent Jimmy Greer to dig her up a knight of the press.
But at last she sat face to face with Ernest King of a certain well-known paper and spilled him the news.
“Look here,” she said, “there is a certain Hallington Bond who has received a lot of notice for his Anti-Perfume Campaign. In his part of the country he has shut up everything but the churches. He’s against everything but funerals. He’s so pure, he’s disgusting. He never smiles, he thinks chewing gum is a dissipation and if you laugh, Hallington Bond will have you jailed. Now, get this, Mr. King, I have a check made out to him by the Hot Tamale magazine for material furnished them and I happen to know that it is mighty hot material.”
A smile of joy spread over Ernest King’s face. “Oh, boy! Can I see the check?”
The evidence was produced and King questioned Teddy some more.
He thanked her, returned to his office—and another career was wrecked.
By morning Hallington C. Bond was a joke.
“The Blue Law Reformer With a Side Line” shrieked the papers.
“Bond, Who Preaches Purity, Writes Salacious Literature for the Hot Tamale.”
Teddy obligingly produced photographs, and a facsimile of the ruinous check informed everyone, including Hallington C. Bond, that he was a Hot Tamale author. The mention of Bond’s Perfume Campaign became a signal for mirth, and vaudevillians pounced on it with their customary cruelty.
And while this went on Teddy Tremont sat in fear and trembling awaiting Bond’s righteous wrath, but never a word came from her sinless sweetie. Now, like all women from Eve of Edenville on, she asked herself why she had done this dark and dastardly deed. She asked, but she knew the answer. It was simply that she was sick and tired of having a holier-than-thou man hanging around. She wanted him to come down from his sterilized perch. She wanted him to be relieved of that pious manner of his—but now he probably hated her, for Hallington stripped of purity was Samson with a French Clip.
And Teddy was awfully sorry, for after all, Hallington with a flask of reforms on his hip was better than no Hallington.
The original date set for the termination of her visit came and went and Teddy did not return. She couldn’t stand seeing Hallington crushed and ashamed, the laughingstock of North Angle.
Then one day as she turned things over in her mind Hallington C. Bond came upon the scene.
“Hello,” he said.
“Why—why, Hal, aren’t you mad at me?”
“Where’s Jimmy Greer?” he asked abruptly.
“I haven’t seen him in days, honestly I haven’t.”
“I’ve been in New York a week,” Hallington said, “but I hesitated to look you up. I thought perhaps Jimmy Greer was filling your horizon.”
“Gosh, Hal, he couldn’t even fill my pipe if I smoked one.”
Hallington C. Bond smiled. “Do you mean it?” he asked. “I was terribly jealous of him.”
Teddy gazed wonderingly at him.
“Teddy, will you marry me now—today?”
“Why, Hallington, don’t you understand, I’ve killed your chances to reform the world. I made you a sap to your own gang.”
“I don’t care, Ted.”
“Really?”
“Honestly.”
He held one of her hands tightly in his and Teddy felt very cozy and glad.
“But, Hal, conditions are the same. The well didn’t shoot oil, did it?”
Hallington turned away and smiled a slow, shamefaced smile. “No, it didn’t dear, but I’ve—I’ve contracted with the Hot Tamale to write twenty stories and it’s pretty good money. Will you, dear?”
Hallington put his arms about her and held her close, and Teddy laughed a happy, little snicker into his shoulder.
“Hal, dear, I like you to kiss me but the man in that window over there is watching us.”
“To hell with him,” said Hallington C. Bond.