Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 23

by Ralph Henry Barbour

 

XXIII

ACK in his room Gordon dropped into a chair under the light and pulled the crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. Tenderly he smoothed it out, and then, tossing away his cigar and pressing his lips to the letter, he read what she had written.

I wonder if you will be glad to get this. hope so. If I was sure you wouldn't be I would ever send it. Perhaps I shan't after all. Things one writes at night look so different in the morning. But now it seems easy to tell you what I want to, easy to acknowledge defeat. For I am defeated, utterly, dear. If I only knew whether you still care it would be so much easier to write this. Sometimes I think you do, know that you do. And then the doubts come and I'm too tired and sick at heart to repel them. If you don't care any more please, please read no further than this. Tear it up and forget what you've read. Won't you promise this now, before you go on?

It seemed so easy—if what is easy can be the hardest thing in life!—such a fine, courageous thing to say no before and go away from you. I meant it all then, or part of me did; my heart never did. But now all the courage has left me and I'm just tired and lonely. I thought then that I was denying you because it was right, that I should, morally right, I mean. Now I think it was more my pride than anything else that prompted me to it. I wasn't willing to be pointed at, dear. I don't think I'm bad; I don't want to be. But I'm a woman and I want happiness. There is so very little else that a woman gets. If she misses that she has nothing. Perhaps I'm a coward, but I can't help it, and I did try, didn't I?

Now how shall I say what I want to? But you've already seen what is in my mind, dear, haven't you? That is, if you've read this far, and, oh, I hope you have! I've tried to be happy without you, and I've failed. I've tried to do without happiness, and I've failed. I think I have a right to happiness if I am willing to pay its price. I am willing. Is it too late? Dear, if you still care—not just a little, but as much as you did—come for me or let me come to you. I make no conditions. Just love me as long as you can, dear. And please, please don't think that I am offering to sell myself. I am giving myself—if you want the gift.

Margaret Milburn.

She was Peggy-in-the-Rain. Do you still remember, dear?

Afterward he read the letter again. And a long time afterward he undressed and went to bed. But sleep stayed far away from him. Some time in the early morning he arose, switched on the lights and, seating himself at the desk, wrote a letter to his mother. He spent the better part of a half-hour at it, and when it was finished he addressed it very deliberately and stamped it and laid it on the table by the door. Then he went to the open window and leaned out. In the east there was a dim radiance that foretold the dawn. The lights along the boulevard shone blurred through a gentle rain. He held his hands out, and when they were wet laved his forehead with the moisture.

He stood there many minutes with his thoughts. At last he raised his face toward the dark sky and smiled.

"I guess you'll understand, Dad," he murmured.

A drop of rain fell on his lips, and he laughed softly.

"Was that a kiss from you, dear?" he whispered. "Was it, Peggy, my Peggy-in-the-Rain?"

THE END