Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 10

by Ralph Henry Barbour

 

X

ORDON walked across town to the garage, two blocks from the house, and found his big, gray underslung roadster awaiting him. Peter Waring had promised to go along, but at the club there was only a hurriedly scrawled note saying that Peter had been kidnapped by his sisters and forcibly conveyed up Westchester way for luncheon.

"Darn sisters anyway," wrote Peter, with a fine disregard for punctuation. "They're always hashing things up for a fellow aren't they? I'll see you at the club at seven."

So Gordon made the journey to Brooklyn alone, spent an hour or more at the basin in looking over the Siren, one hundred and eighty feet of speed and luxury, and in conferring with his sailing master, and then sped homeward. It had already sprinkled once, a five-minute downpour from a sunny April sky, and now, as he hummed across the bridge, It began again. Northward the sun was gleaming on white sails and sparkling on the water, but overhead a purple-gray cloud was moving up from the south, and from it in the still air the rain plashed straight down in big lazy drops. Gordon stopped and slipped on a rubber coat, and then, the shower increasing to a very respectable downpour meanwhile, slid into the busy traffic on the Manhattan side and worked cautiously over slippery pavements toward Fifth Avenue. The cloud had grown and the city was enveloped in a false twilight of falling raindrops and dim reflections. The afternoon was mild and soft, hinting at May, scarcely a week distant, and the shower, hissing against the stones and flooding the gutters, drew forth a pleasantly earthy smell. Above the roofs the white steam writhed and floated in billowing festoons. Here and there in some basement shop a light appeared, splashing the gloom with lemon-yellow radiance. As he turned into the Avenue his gaze, wandering idly under a dripping awning on the corner, caught sight of a figure there. The big wheels hissed on the wet asphalt as the car came to a stop within its length. Gordon leaped out and hurried back.

 

"As he turned into the Avenue his gaze caught sight of a figure there."

 

She had not seen him, it seemed, for she was standing, back toward him, one of a group of six or eight persons caught unprotected in the shower and marooned under the tiny awning. She was in black and looked smaller than he remembered her. His heart was pounding like a runner's as he took off his cap and put out his hand to her.

"Peggy-in-the-Rain!" he said softly.

She looked up with startled eyes. There was no instant of unrecognition; she knew him at once. Afterwards he strove to recall her expression, but failed. The memory of the meeting was very blurry. At the moment he was conscious of scarcely more than his own feelings, strangely happy and triumphant. She gave him her hand and smiled up at him, while a little warmth of color crept into the pale cheeks.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," he said joyfully, "but I should have known that when I found you it would be like this—in a shower! What do you do with yourself when the sun shines, Peggy-in-the-Rain?"

She drew her hand from his—he was honestly surprised to find he was still holding it!—and shook her head. "That's my secret," she answered. She became suddenly aware of the curious glances of the persons huddled around them. "Have you been back long?" she asked hurriedly, drawing away from him a little.

"From Aiken? Some time. I left about a fortnight after you did. Do you know that I looked all over the place for you, hunted you high and low? And then, when I finally got news of you, you'd gone! You didn't play fair!"

She smiled, looking away. "It's you who aren't playing fair, Mr. Ames. I thought we agreed that—that a thunderstorm wasn't sufficient introduction."

"You may have agreed; I didn't," he replied laughingly. "I went back there the next afternoon and rode for weeks looking for The Lady and The Tiger."

"The Lady—Oh!" she laughed. "That's quite clever."

"It's nothing to what I can do if I have an inspiring audience."

"Meaning that I'm not?"

"Meaning that you are! Meaning that if you'll let me perform for you I'll be as—as amusing as—well, Eddie Foy and Richard Carll and the best of them are mere gobs of gloom beside me! What do you say?"

"It sounds tempting," she replied lightly, "but I'm a very busy young person, Mr. Ames, and these are my work days."

"But you can't work all the time," he insisted. "You must have some hours of play."

"Not very many. And when I have sleep looks better to me than amusement. And besides——"

"Well?" he asked as she paused.

She looked up at him gravely. "Have you forgotten what I told you that day—in Aiken?"

"Never! I remember every word you spoke, every glance, every smile and—every frown. There were a lot of frowns, Peggy-in-the-Rain."

"Please don't call me that," she said. "I—we were silly that day——"

"I deny it! We were wise! Besides, I like that name—Peggy-in-the-Rain. I think I shall always call you that," he added softly.

The color crept back into her cheeks, but she frowned impatiently. "You are not behaving—very well," she murmured. "I asked you not to."

"Then tell me another name and I'll try to call you by it—if I like it."

"You know my name," she said, faintly indignant.

He looked puzzled. "Peggy, you mean?"

"My last name, of course."

"Oh, but I don't! I want to! What is it, please?"

She smiled scornfully. "At least be truthful, Mr. Ames!"

"Truthful? What do you mean? Don't you believe me? I give you my word that I haven't any more idea what your last name is than—than that truck horse!"

She viewed him doubtfully. "But—I thought——" She paused confusedly.

"What did you think, please?"

"Nothing. That is, I thought—Leona Morrill had told you."

"Then you know that I asked her? She told me only a night or so ago that she hadn't seen you."

"She hadn't then. I lunched with her yesterday."

"But surely she didn't tell you that she'd told me your name? She wouldn't tell me a thing. She said you—didn't want me to know. Didn't you?"

She shook her head.

"Why?" he asked. And then, as she made no answer, "Why?" he repeated.

"You know why," she replied finally, lifting a rather defiant face to him. "I told you—that day. You have forgotten, it seems, after all."

"Oh, that!" he said carelessly. "About our not being in the same bunch. That's no reason at all."

"It's a very good reason," she returned. "Such a good reason that had I seen you coming I'd have run. What do you suppose people who know you by sight—and most every one in New York does, I guess—what do you suppose they think when they see you talking to me here on a street corner?"

"Think? Let them think what they like! Besides, I don't want to talk to you on a corner. Heaven knows! Let's go somewhere where we can be comfortable; Martin's—the Hoffman—anywhere. My car's over there. I'll find an umbrella for you and we'll be under cover in no time. Shall we? Please be kind! If you only knew how I've looked for you ever since I got back to town, Peggy-in-the-Rain!"

"You refuse to understand," she sighed. "If you don't care what they might think, Mr. Ames, I do. So please let's say good-by."

"Good-by!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Now? When I've just found you at last? You don't really mean it! Why—why, hang it, there isn't going to be any good-by—ever! Don't you feel that?"

The blue eyes dropped troubledly. She turned away, one hand clutching at her skirts. "I must go now," she said.

"In this rain? Good Lord, you can't! You'll get sopping wet! Wait, please! What is it you want me to do? I don't understand, I guess. Do you really mean that I'm not to—to see you, not to have anything to do with you? Just because you—because I—Why, it's absurd! You can't be in earnest! You aren't, are you? You're just teasing me?"

"I am in earnest." she answered stoutly. "I mean just that."

"But—look here, I'm not a villain in a melodrama. Miss—Miss Peggy! I'm only asking you to let me be a friend. Can't you do that? I thought—well, you know you do rather like me; you must, or you wouldn't have been so decent to me that day in the woods. So where's the harm, please, if you let me see you now and then and talk to you? Why shouldn't we go to Martin's for tea; Martin's or any other place you suggest?"

She was silent a moment. Then she raised her eyes and looked at him with a little smile trembling about her lips. "And this friendship," she asked, "how does it end?"

"Friendship doesn't end," he answered.

"And how will you explain to your friends when they see us having tea together at Martin's?"

"There is no explanation necessary. Is it an unusual thing for a chap to take a lady to tea?"

"And if they ask my name, who I am?"

"I shall tell them. But you're making a mountain——"

"And if any one who knows me asks who you are—no, they wouldn't do that, for they'd know. But if they asked why I was with you?"

"You'd tell them because I was your friend."

"Yes." She smiled ironically. "They'd be quite willing to believe that without my telling them."

Gordon flushed. "Then damn such friends!" he exclaimed savagely. "A real friend wouldn't think the rottenest thing possible!"

"One's friends are of all kinds," she answered sagely. "No, I'm not anxious for—the notoriety that would be mine if I did what you propose. I know New York pretty well, Mr. Ames; my work has shown me all sides of it; and I know that friendship between a man in your position and with your wealth and a woman such as I is impossible; at all events, for the woman! But we can be friends, can't we, even if we don't see each other? You're rather nice and I do like you, just as you said, and I shall like to think that we are friends." She smiled frankly and held out her hand to him. "And now I really must get on. I've loads to do, and the shower is almost over."

He took her hand and held it tightly. "No," he said, "that won't do. I won't keep you now if you must go, but this isn't good-by. I give you fair warning, you see. You aren't rid of me as easily as that, Peggy-in-the-Rain."

"You—you're selfish," she answered sadly, trying to pull her hand away.

"Perhaps. Anyhow, I'm truthful. I said I wanted your friendship. I don't. I want—more than that, Peggy. And—this isn't good-by." He released her hand.

"It is good-by," she said desperately. "I shall never see you again! Please understand that! Never!"

Her eyes met his, frightened and angry. He smiled back into them. "That's not with you," he answered calmly. "It rests with the gods, perhaps with Jupiter Pluvius. I think we shall meet again. I don't even know your name, nor ask it, so confident am I."

"You've made me hate you," she cried defiantly. "I want never to see you!"

"Then pray to Jupiter, Peggy-in-the-Rain!"

He watched her hurry over the crossing, watched her until she was lost in the throng almost a block away. The rain had ceased and westward a faint yellow glare told of sunset. Up and down the Avenue the lights shone steely blue. Gordon sighed, frowned and went back to his car. With the motor started he paused to light a cigarette and smiled to find his fingers trembling.