Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 17

by Ralph Henry Barbour

 

XVII

EDNESDAY, Thursday and Friday were to be lived through. That was the thought that came to him first in the morning. The three days stretched before him blank and interminable. He regretted agreeing to the terms she had made. All sorts of doubts assailed him. Perhaps, after all, it had been with her merely an infatuation, a hysteria of sentiment that would wither under the first cold, gray light of morning. He had assured her that she loved him, and had believed it then, but supposing that her momentary fears had been well founded, that the love had been only a flash of passion born of the adventure, of the lights and music and the night with its wan moon and myriad stars, only a reflection of his own desire. Then to-day, or to-morrow, or the day after, would bring her counsel, and that Gordon feared. He sneered at the chivalry that had allowed her to slip away from him, even credited her with a sophistication that would allow her to find amusement in the ease with which she had evaded his importunities and escaped from a situation which, as he told himself savagely, might easily have produced different results. By the time he descended to breakfast he had worked himself into an extremely ugly mood.

But later, after a hard gallop through the Park, the soft, warm kindliness of the spring morning worked a change. He recalled her words and the brave timidity with which she had spoken, her face across the table, above the pink and white of the flowers, her eyes with the stars reflected in them. He closed his own eyes and heard again the sudden leap of passion in her voice as she had whispered, "I do! Oh, I do!" there in the black shadows of the corner; felt the ghost of that kiss on his mouth. He threw his shoulders back and drew a long breath of the scented air. He was glad, immeasurably glad that it had all happened as it had. She loved him, she was his and in her own time she would come to him under no compulsion save that of her own heart. And then, God helping him, she should never have a moment of regret. Theirs should be a marriage in the true sense. All the gold rings and mumbled words in the world could make it no more sacred, no more binding.

Afterwards he staved off doubt and the ceaseless longing for her by making plans for their future. There would be a house in town, and in the summer—well, perhaps only a nest of a bungalow somewhere in the mountains or by the shore; that should be of her choosing, but it must be so small that she would have no cares; two or three servants would be enough. He looked forward eagerly to the furnishing of the places. They would do that together. He saw them riding about town from store to store, side by side in a hansom. He paused and frowned. They would have to be circumspect. He was not going to have her pointed out in restaurants and leered at and whispered over. Well, then, perhaps not a hansom. She should have her own carriages and electric, of course. He would look to the ordering of those at once, and in one of those they could do their shopping. There was to be no expense spared; he only feared that she might restrain him in his joy of extravagance. The town house should be all that his own staid and old-fashioned home was not, a place of soft colors and shaded lights, of shimmering, silken rugs underfoot. He smiled with pleasure at the idea of having her own rooms furnished and decorated in a shade of blue to match the wonderful color of her eyes.

But before that they would steal away on the Siren. It could be done. No one, beyond the sailing master and crew, need know. Of course, ultimately every one would know; it would become for a week or two the gossip of drawing-rooms and cafés; that could not be helped; but he would delay that time as long as possible.

And equally, of course, his mother would learn of it. He was sorry for that. He had virtually promised only a fortnight or so ago that there would be no more illicit affairs. But this was different; only he knew that his mother would fail to discern the difference. He wondered whether, after all, it might not be possible to keep the affair secret. Instead of a house in town they might have one somewhere outside; perhaps in one of the towns along the shore. But reflection showed him the futility of that plan. He was too well-known to hope to escape unrecognized; besides, it would look—perhaps to Peggy herself—as though he were ashamed of her, ashamed of the attachment. No, the thing must be done decently, openly. After all, he was doing only what a dozen men in his set were doing, and doing with the tacit consent of society.

These plans for the future kept him occupied through the first two days. On Thursday, so impatient was he to see the fulfillment of them, that he started house-hunting. And late in the afternoon he found what he wanted, a three-story dwelling in one of the Fifties, just around the corner from the Avenue, an English basement house with a white marble front that had been rebuilt by a Western millionaire two years before and later abandoned as being two modest. The price was high, but Gordon was beyond thoughts of price. He instructed his broker to take an option on it, and went down to his club well satisfied.

Peter Waring dropped in presently from an afternoon affair of some sort, where he had somewhat disregarded his doctor's instructions and imbibed far from wisely. Gordon listened for a while to his maunderings and then took him home.

"Get into a cold tub, Pete," he admonished him, "and brace up. What are you doing this evening?"

"No' a thing," said Peter. "Got 'n' sussheshions?"

"Yes. Let's go to a show. I'll drop around for you at eight-fifteen, old man. Don't forget the tub."

"Nev' fear, Grordie. Always ready for lil' fun. Thash kin' hairpin I'm."

At half past eight Peter was sober but hazy. They went to a theater together and dropped into Louis Martin's for supper. Peter was all for finishing up the evening in a blaze of glory, but Gordon had no heart for it. The music affected him strangely, and he was rapidly acquiring a fine case of blues when Peter caused a diversion.

"Heard about Tommy Tupence?" he asked. "Gone home to Hingland."

"The deuce! What's wrong?"

"Chucked."

"Never!"

Peter nodded cheerfully. "A bit of a facer for Tommy, I'll bet. They say he's been pasting a few more mortgages on the old home to keep his end up here. It's a cropper for poor old Tommy, what?"

"Rather! But—why, I thought it was as good as settled!"

"Everybody did. I fancy the old gentleman is discouraged. First you, you know, and now his Lardship—or his Grease, or whatever he calls himself."

"Seen Leona since?"

"Yes, last night. Seemed very fit. She's a wonder, that girl."

"Ye-es."

"Well, ain't she?" Peter challenged.

"Of course she is. I was only wondering—why."

"Don't. It's no use. Never waste time wondering why any woman does anything. I don't know; you don't know; the women don't know."

"Wrong, Pete. They know but they can't explain so we'd understand. Well, I'm surprised."

"Same here." Peter ate his egg Benedict in silence for a few moments. Then he buried his face behind his napkin and said: "I say, Gordon, you know—I'm thinking of—of taking a chance myself."

"Are you? What sort?"

"Matrimonial."

"Still got that obsession, Peter? Found the happy partner of your woes yet?"

"I'm telling you, ain't I?" growled Peter. "She can't any more than throw me down, eh?"

"She might jump on you afterwards," replied Gordon. "They sometimes do. May I ask who 'she' is?"

"I've told you." Peter reddened. "It—it's her."

"Take your time," said Gordon patiently. "No hurry. There, now, try again, old man."

"Go to the devil! It's Leona. I told you so."

Gordon stared. Then he whistled. Then he grinned.

"You're not fooling, Pete?"

"Of course I'm not," Peter growled. "Why not, eh? Tell me why not? Isn't she a fine girl?"

"Yes, she is," replied Gordon sincerely. "She hates me like poison, but——"

Peter shook his head. "No, she don't."

"Don't what?"

"Hate you. She only thinks she does."

"Well, it's a damned good imitation!"

"I know." Peter wagged his head gravely. "You don't know women for a damn, Gordon."

"And you do, you fat-head?" jeered his friend.

"Better than that, anyway. If you asked her to marry you to-morrow she'd grab you."

"If she did," replied the other grimly, "it would be so she could make my life a burden to me!"

"That's the only thing keeps me back," ruminated Peter. "If she wants you I dare say she'll turn up her nose at me, what?"

"If she does! Don't be a fool, Pete. I tell you she can't stand me around her."

"All right; your way. But—now, honest, would you try?"

"Why not, as you say? Only—I never knew you cared for her, Pete."

"We-ell, it's been sort of gradual. It's like drinking."

"Eh?"

"Starts in easy and you think you can quit any time you want to, and then you try and you can't let go to save your life. See what I mean? That way with me."

"Pete, you told me not over a year ago that you thought Leona a stunning girl, but that you'd as soon think of marrying the dome of—of Saint Paul's, I think it was."

Peter had the grace to blush. "My mistake," he said. "Anyway, I'd rather marry the dome of Saint Paul's than any one else I know. Only thing is, as I say, if she's still stuck on you——"

"She isn't! That's your silly imagination. Ever mentioned the matter to her, Pete?"

"About——"

"Yes, about wanting to marry her."

"No, not exactly; not in words, you know. I've been keeping her in flowers pretty regularly for a month or so; ever since she got back from the South, you know. I guess she has a hunch how it is with me."

"Unless she's a lot more dense than I think she is," Gordon laughed. "Well, go in and win, old man. Here's luck!"

Peter drank gloomily. "How about you?" he asked. "You still thinking of getting married?"

"Only thinking," replied Gordon gayly.

"Hm; I wish you would."

"The devil you do! A case of misery loves company, eh?"

"No, but if you got married she'd see it wasn't any use. Then maybe she—she'd consider me, what?"

"Pete, you're a silly ass," said Gordon affectionately. "Take my word for it that Leona Morrill loves me just as much as she loves a snake."

Peter shook his head, unconvinced. "Maybe. Anyhow, I guess I'll take a chance."

"Tell you what I'll do, Pete. I'll bet you a hundred she accepts you. What do you say?"

Peter cheered up. "Take you," he said promptly. "Make it five if you like."

"No, I don't want your money, old man. It's just for the sport."

Peter gravely made a memorandum in his book. "Hope I lose it," he said.

"If you do," said Gordon, "you'll be able to afford it."

"Look here," truculently, "if you think it's her money——"

"Soothe yourself, Pete. I don't. What you're after is position."

"Go to the devil!" responded Peter with a grin.