Peggy-in-the-Rain

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Peggy-in-the-Rain

"'Happy!' she murmured dreamily."

[Page 227]

Chapter 1

Peggy-in-the-Rain

I

THE breeze which had tempered the heat of a mid-March day had died away, and the leaves along the bridle path hung motionless in the sudden oppression. Above the tree tops the sky darkened ominously. Gordon Ames, gun on shoulder and three brace of plump quail bulging the pockets of his shooting jacket, paused for breath and wiped the perspiration from his face.

It was a good-looking face. Some thought it too good-looking. Perhaps, although the chin was square and prominent, the nose straight and the brown eyes candid and direct, it lacked strength, or seemed to. The fault was with the mouth, which, unhidden by a mustache, was smilingly soft. On the whole, however, the face was pleasing; honest, good-humored, merry, with a glint of dare-deviltry in the brown eyes. For the rest, Gordon Ames was twenty-seven years of age, five feet and eleven inches in height and slender with the slenderness of hard muscles and firm flesh.

The dry sand of the path made hard walking, and the air had grown hot and heavy and humid. It didn't require the sullen rumble of thunder overhead to apprise him of the fact that he was probably in for a wetting. He had been coming to Aiken for many winters and had long since learned the symptoms heralding the approach of the brief but terrific thunderstorms of the South. He was not particularly concerned about getting wet, and it wouldn't have helped if he had been, for he was a good mile and a half from town. Farther along, however, there was a deserted cabin, which Garret Fessenden had neglected to pull down when he had bought the tract to round out his five hundred acres of game preserve, and Gordon decided to reach it if the storm would let him. He shifted his shotgun to his other shoulder and pushed on. The woods had become very still. Not a leaf stirred, not a bird chirped. The jasmine blooms had almost gone, but enough remained on the festooning vines to fill the breathless air with their languorous perfume. A heavier rumble of thunder broke the silence, and as it died away in diminishing echoes, there came the soft thud of hoofs on the path behind him. He stepped aside and turned to look. A big rangy sorrel swept into sight at a gallop, and Gordon made ready to lift his hat to the rider, a girl in a linen habit who was bending low in the saddle as she raced against the storm. Gordon met for an instant the half-startled glance from a pair of dark eyes, and then horse and rider were past him and out of sight around the next turn.

He went on, mildly curious about the girl. There had been only time for a glance, but the glance had shown him a face quite unknown to him; and Gordon thought he knew, by sight at least, most of the feminine faces of Aiken's winter colony. Certainly the girl might be staying at the big hotel on the outskirts of town, but that didn't explain her mount. The big sorrel with his three white stockings was not a livery horse, of that he was certain. Moreover, he was almost equally certain that he had seen the horse before. Gordon's memory for horses was more than equal to his memory for girls, and now it annoyed him that he couldn't place the sorrel. Then there came the first patter of rain on the leaves, and the problem, which was an unimportant one in any case, was forgotten. A great flash of intense white light flooded the forest, turning the leaves to a strange and ghastly shade of arsenical green, and then a clap of thunder, deafening, appalling, rent the heavens and shook the earth, and the deluge began.

It is one thing to get moderately wet and quite another to be soaked to the skin. Gordon ran. Already the soft sand was heavy with water, and every hoof-print was a tiny puddle. The drops pelted down in great white streaks, blinding him. Leaves, stripped from their branches, splotched the ground. It was like a cloudburst. With the deserted cabin in mind, Gordon plunged on along the winding path, his shotgun tucked under his arm in an attempt to protect the breech. The lightning flashed almost incessantly, and the thunder, following the livid radiances, seemed to rip the sky in its terrific crashes. The cabin was still some distance away, how far he couldn't even guess, and already he was mentally likening his condition to that of a drowned rat, when, above the hissing clamor of the rain, he heard a cry. He stopped, shielded his eyes and looked about. At a little distance from the path was a big magnolia, and under it stood the horse with the three white stockings. His first glance failed to detect the girl, but a flash of light flooded the scene the next instant and Gordon caught sight of a figure huddled against the bole of the tree, of a white, frightened face, of a wet, gloved hand holding tightly to the bridle reins. He brushed through the dripping underbrush that caught and tripped him and hurried to the shelter of the tree. The horse, plainly nervous, whinnied at his approach. The girl summoned a smile to her pale face. She had been crouching on the ground, but now she stood up, steadying herself against the tree, her knees trembling under her.

"Would you mind—staying here?" she asked. "I'm so awfully afraid! I2"

A clap of thunder drowned her voice. Gordon smiled and nodded reassuringly, leaned his gun against the tree, and took the reins from her clenched hand.

"Mind!" he exclaimed when the thunder had spent. "I should say not! Why, this is perfectly bully; a regular rain-proof tent!" He patted the horse's neck, spoke soothingly, and the sorrel, pointing his ears, seemed less restive on the instant. There was a flash of lightning, and the girl gasped and closed her eyes. The thunder broke, and she strained backward against the tree with clenched hands, fighting against her terror. When he could make himself heard, Gordon spoke lightly and cheerfully, apparently not noticing her panic.

"Quite a storm, isn't it? It will be all over in five minutes, though, and the sun out again. Did you get very wet?"

"N-no, I rode in here as soon as the rain started," she replied, her wide eyes straining for the next flash. "Oh, I'm such a coward about thunder and lightning. It—it's silly, I know, but I can't— Oh!"

He waited again. Then:

"Sit down," he said authoritatively. "Here, we'll both sit down. The ground isn't very wet, and, anyway, you'll be home in a few minutes." He drew the horse nearer, squatted beside her and

"'Would you mind—staying here? I'm so awfully afraid!'"

took her hand. "Don't mind, do you? Just something to hold on to, you know."

She smiled wanly and clung tightly to his hand, shaking her head.

"I don't feel so scared," she said. "Isn't it almost over?"

"Pretty nearly now," he replied cheerfully. "First thing we know the sun will be out and we'll be steaming like—like a couple of clams!"

She tried to smile at his simile, but a jagged flash rent the sky asunder above the tops of the drooping trees and she closed her eyes again and clenched Gordon's hand convulsively so that he flinched as his ring bit into the flesh. He had a chance to look at her then. She looked absurdly small and helpless. Her hat, a narrow-rimmed Panama with a green and white scarf, had slipped to one side, revealing a good deal of soft brown hair. She was decidedly pretty, even now, frightened and bedraggled as she was, and Gordon felt a surge of big-brotherly pity.

"It's a darned shame," he muttered.

The girl heard him and opened her eyes.

"I'm—so silly," she said faintly.

Her eyes, he saw, were very deeply blue, almost violet, and now, with the terror in them, they were unnaturally large and dark. Somehow, with those eyes on him he felt less big-brotherly than he had a moment before. The eyes turned away and he was rather glad of it, for he found that his heart had begun to beat a strange tune. He studied the soft curve of her cheek and the little tendril of brown hair that had become plastered against it by the rain, and the desire to protect her became so strong that he could have stood up and, like Ajax, defied the lightning! The magnolia tree, while it fell far short of supplying the shelter of the tent that Gordon had likened it to, was a sturdy old forest giant, with a wide spread, and its great oval leaves, green-lacquered on top, spilled the rain from their glistening surfaces like so many duck's feathers. The rain found its way through, to be sure, but, Gordon reflected, perhaps the cabin which he had sought would have proved no tighter. The horse, trembling and snorting when the thunder crashed, behaved admirably, like the thoroughbred gentleman he was.

"They say," said the girl presently, "that it's dangerous to be under a tree. Is it?"

"Some trees," lied Gordon cheerfully, "but not a magnolia. I supposed that was the reason you selected this one. It's funny about magnolia trees. There's some—some quality in the—I think it's the sap, but it may be the bark—that deflects lightning. I thought of course you knew." He waited for the elements to have their inning. "We're just as safe here as though we were sitting on a glass table. You've never seen a magnolia that had been struck by lightning, have you?"

"N-no." She looked at him doubtfully and essayed a little laugh. "I—I don't believe it, but—it sounds nice!"

"When you know me better," replied Gordon gravely, "you'll want to apologize for that. I2"

The thunder had its way again, but the din was less and there had been a perceptible pause between the flash and the clap.

"Hear that? "he asked.

She nodded dumbly, staring straight in front of her with puckered brow, for all the world, thought Gordon with another swift surge of pity, as though she expected some one to strike her.

"Well, it's going by fast. Why, it's halfway to Augusta now. I dare say it's looking for the river. They say thunderstorms follow the rivers. I guess this one got lost in the woods, eh?"

"Pro-probably," she gasped.

"You're staying in Aiken?" he asked.

"Yes."

"We haven't met before, have we? But that's a silly question to ask. If we had I'd have remembered."

"I've been here only a few days."

"I see." The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and a strange silence held the forest. The storm was dying away toward the south. "May I ask whether he is yours?" Gordon nodded toward the horse. "I've seen him before, I'm sure."

"No, he isn't mine. He—was loaned to me. This habit, too." She glanced down at the wet gray linen skirt. "It's—a mess, isn't it?"

The color was creeping back into her cheeks now and she withdrew her hand from his.

"It will wash, won't it?" he asked carelessly.

"I suppose so. Oh, there's the sun!"

"Yes, and now we'll frizzle up with heat. What time is it, I wonder." He looked at his watch and whistled. "By Jove, almost five! That storm must have lasted fully a half hour."

"Oh, I must get back!" she exclaimed in dismay. "They'll think something has happened to me!"

"Something has," he responded with a smile. "You've been marooned under a magnolia tree with a horse, a strange man and six quail. Isn't that a happening?"

She colored faintly. "Six quail?" she murmured.

"In my pockets. I'd been shooting. Garry Fessenden lets me pot his birds. He's abroad this winter. When the storm came up I was hiking for the old cabin back there. I'm glad, though, I missed it."

"So am I," she said simply. "I'd have died in another minute or two if you hadn't come. Or perhaps I'd have just fainted. I—I couldn't have stood it much longer, I know. I suppose it was—cheeky for me to call out to you2"

"Cheeky! Rather not! It was very sensible. Besides, you were doing me a kindness; I'd have been soaked to the skin if I'd kept on to the cabin."

"You look soaked to the skin now," she replied with a shaky laugh. Gordon liked that laugh. He liked her voice, too. In fact, as he looked at her now, he found every instant something new to like.

"Oh, I'm not really wet. This jacket sheds the rain pretty well, about as well as any 'rain-proof' stuff does. Besides, I'm used to it. I'll be back at the hotel in ten minutes, and a tub and a palmetto will leave me feeling as fit as a fiddle."

"A palmetto?" she asked questioningly.

"Yes. Haven't you tried 'em? They make 'em to the King's taste at the club. I'll introduce you to one the first time we meet."

"Oh, it's something to drink?"

"Quite so," he laughed. "It's a very wonderful cocktail, quite the best thing to be found in Aiken. Oh, I say, you're not going yet?"

"I must." She tried to rise, but her cramped limbs failed her. Gordon sprang to his feet and helped her up.

"Are you sure you feel—aright enough?" he asked anxiously. "Don't you think you'd better wait a few minutes?"

She shook her head. "I'm all right now, thanks," she replied, pulling her hat into place and smoothing herself with quick, deft touches. "I must really get back. They may think I've been struck by lightning."

"At least let me go with you," he begged. "I'll walk along and keep a hand on the bridle."

But she shook her head. "You're very kind," she said firmly, "but it really isn't necessary. If you'll just give me a hand up2"

He led the sorrel out through the wet undergrowth to the bridle path. The sun was out hot, and on every branch and spray quivering drops glittered like diamonds or shone like chrysoprase, limpidly green. The horse, nodding his sleek head, seemed eager to be away. Gordon looked to the girth, tossed the reins back and held his hands for a rather scuffed little brown boot. The girl settled herself in the saddle.

"I hope you'll be none the worse for it," said Gordon, arranging the skirt of the bedraggled habit. "I shall see you again, of course. Everybody meets here."

'Perhaps," replied the girl, gathering up the reins.

"Perhaps! Oh, I say!"

She smiled and held down a small hand in a wet glove. "If we don't meet again you may credit yourself with having played the part of valiant knight beautifully. And the lady in distress thanks you very, very much indeed."

"Well—but—I shall want to know about you! Whether you caught cold, you know, or—or anything."

"I don't catch colds. You need not have any uneasiness about me," she answered with a smile.

"In the stories I have read," said Gordon plaintively, "the rescued Princesses are more—are much kinder."

"But I'm not a Princess, Mr. Ames."

"Then we have met before!" he exclaimed eagerly.

"No, never."

"But you know my name?"

"Why not?" She smiled. "Do you suppose that a gentleman who inherits—how many millions is it?—Fifty? A hundred?—when he is just out of college can escape attention? You have been pointed out to me more than once, Mr. Ames."

"Where? In New York?"

She nodded.

"Then you live there?"

"At present."

"And your name?" he asked boldly.

She shook her head again.

"It looks like a challenge," he said with a laugh and a frown. "If it is2"

"It isn't, really. I'm not trying to make a mystery of myself. I'm very grateful to you for—for being so nice to me, but—there isn't any more, Mr. Ames."

"You mean you don't want to know me," he said a trifle stiffly.

"I mean—" She paused and frowned at the horse's restive head. Then, turning to him gravely, "I mean," she went on, "that I am not what you think I am. This is a borrowed horse and a borrowed habit. I am a daw in peacock's feathers. I am not in your set, Mr. Ames, and our paths are not likely to cross again."

"That doesn't matter," he said sturdily. "I want to know you."

"Suppose you did know me?" she asked.

"Why, then—we could be friends, couldn't we?"

"Do you really think so?" she asked mockingly. "Do you think a girl who earns her living—for that is what I do, Mr. Ames—can afford to have Grordon Ames for a friend?"

"I don't see why not," he said stubbornly.

"But I think you do see," she smiled. "I must go. Good-by—and thank you."

"Wait!" He laid a hand on the bridle. "I can't have it end this way. I— Why, I'm more than half in love with you, girl, whoever you are! Doesn't that mean a little to you? Can't you be a little bit kind?"

"Do you think—that's a good reason—for being kind to you? " she asked slowly, the color creeping into her cheeks, but her eyes meeting his quite steadily.

"I certainly do! Hang it, girl, surely you're not one of those narrow Puritans who think that just because a chap has money and belongs to what they call the 'swell set,' he's a—brute and a bounder! Why in Heaven's name shouldn't we be friends? Besides, you—you're not2"

"You are trying to say," she laughed as he faltered, "that I am old enough to take care of myself? I am. I'm twenty-three, and I've been taking care of myself for five years."

"Then2"

"Oh, but wait, please! Suppose I unreasonably forget that it was just friendship? You know you're not at all bad looking, Mr. Ames; and you don't seem a bit more conceited than the average man; and you can be very sweet and nice. So, as I say, suppose I fell in love with you?"

His face flushed. "I wish to God you would!" he said hoarsely.

"And if I did?" she asked ironically.

"Why—" The pause was short enough, but it was there—"why, if you did, I suppose we'd do the usual thing."

"Which is?" she pursued mercilessly.

"Be married." He laughed bitterly. "Your opinion of me is certainly flattering."

She paid no heed to that. "Be married," she mused. "You and I; the millionaire and the work girl! It would make a good story for the papers, at least, wouldn't it?"

"Damn the papers!" he said savagely. "I believe you're laughing at me all the time. Well, laugh if you like. But you can't forget me, can you?" he challenged.

She shook her head. "I don't think I want to. You have quite restored my faith in your kind, Mr. Ames. Thanks for that; and, again, for your kindness."

She picked up the reins. He laid a hand on them behind the bit.

"No, you can't go yet," he said hoarsely. "We've got to come to terms!"

Her eyes darkened, although a little smile still trembled about her mouth. For a long moment their glances held. Then he dropped his hand and stepped back.

"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "Good-by."

But when the horse moved forward she reined him back. And the smile grew until it was a very kindly one.

"If you're going, please go," he said impatiently.

But having won her victory, womanlike she would yield.

"Then—you don't want to know?" she asked.

"What?"

"My name."

"You know I do."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"Then … it's Peggy."

He waited. She shook the reins and the sorrel pranced forward.

"Peggy what?" he demanded.

She turned and smiled back at him as the horse broke into a canter.

"Peggy-in-the-Rain," she said softly.

Chapter 2

II

IN the branches of a chinaberry tree outside the open window a mocking-bird was going through his repertoire, a repertoire of trills and gurgles and sudden flutings that started off with a dash and invariably ended, after a dozen notes, for all the world like the performance of a tenor who has forgotten his song. But, unlike the singer, he showed no embarrassment. Off he went again, throatily chanting of the rain that had brought him a bountiful supper, trilling of the charms and virtues of his mate, who, doubtless, was attending to her housewifely duties and awaiting her lord's return in some nearby tree. Gordon, getting leisurely into his dinner clothes, went to the window and watched him where, halfway along a slender branch, he stood, head up, pouring a cascade of music from his trim gray body.

"Go it, you little duffer," encouraged Gordon, wrestling with a stubborn stud. "Tilt your head back and let's have it. That's the stuff!"

The bird heard and cocked an inquiring beady eye toward the open window. He shifted one foot, put his head at an angle and examined Gordon exhaustively. Then, apparently satisfied, he swelled his throat, took a firm grip on the branch and proceeded to tell all about everything. And Gordon, having conquered the refractory stud, listened.

Swing, swing, swing in the chinaberry tree! Here's a breeze! Here's a breeze! The leaves are rustling about me And the twilight is creeping up, up Over the hill and through the darkening forest, And the moon, the tiny moon, hangs like a silver worm Above the steeple. It has rained and the world Is damp and fragrant, and the little fat bugs Are crawling. There's one! There's one! There's one!

Sing, sing, sing in the chinaberry tree! Hear me! Hear me! Hear me! Was ever a song so sweet as mine? See me ruffle and swell! What a voice have I! I have dined; I am happy; I sing! Over there Sits my plump little wife by our nest.

If I call she will answer. Did you hear? Did you hear? Such a sweet little wife! I love her, I love her! Eh? Did she call? Just a minute, my dear; I must finish my song; just a minute, a minute, a minute! Oh, how I sing! I'm in love with my voice. And my wife and the beautiful world! Heigho! Good night! Here I come! Here I come! Here I come!

Off he darted, a gray streak in the soft twilight.

"If there's a Hammerstein in Birdland," murmured Gordon, "he will have you signed for next season, I bet."

He lighted a cigarette, flicked the match onto the lawn below and blew a blue cloud of smoke through the window,

"What a voice she had!" he went on, half to himself. "Peggy! What a dear, queer little name! Peggy-in-the-Rain, she called herself." He smiled. "Please, who are you, Peggy-in-the-Rain? And where are you now, I wonder. Just around the corner, on the next street? Up yonder there in the big hotel? Out on Whiskey Road in some big white stucco palace? Are you think of me—a little—Peggy-in-the-Rain? Well, wherever you are, my dear, here's to you." He lifted a glass and drained the last spoonful of amber in the bottom. "Here's to you and to our next meeting, Peggy-in-the-Rain!"

Chapter 3

III

EVERYBODY meets in Aiken, Gordon had declared. And the next morning he set out to prove it so. White-flanneled, he hurried over to the golf club. There were plenty there who would have stayed his anxious search. The Golden Widow—they called Mrs. Burke-Parrish that to distinguish her from a brunette widow—barred his way with a silken sunshade.

"I'm looking for a friend," he explained.

"Won't I do?" asked Mrs. Hampton.

"Not as a friend, Fair Lady," he answered, catching sight of a face on the porch that might be Hers and longing to be off. "Hello, Pete."

"Tell us about her," said Peter Waring, hooking the handle of his stick about Gordon's ankle.

"Her?" asked the victim. "Who?"

"The friend you're looking for, of course. What's she like, old man?"

"Yes, dark or fair, Mr. Ames?" added the widow.

"Short or tall, old man?"

"Kind or unkind, O Disconsolate Lover?"

"Er—she's rather tall and short, with a lot of light black hair. And she's distinctly unkind, since she's evidently not here."

"She's foxy," declared Pete. "That's all, old man. They all are."

"Brute!" said the widow. "Ask Mr. Ames to drive out to the Farm with us this afternoon, Peter."

Gordon gently disengaged his imprisoned ankle and shook his head. "Don't do it, Pete," he warned regretfully. "I'd have to refuse you, and that would pain me deeply."

The Golden Widow pouted. "I believe the man's absolutely in love! Think of it! Gordon Ames in love!"

"I wondered if you'd never guess my secret," Gordon sighed.

The widow threatened him with the formidable sunshade and he retreated in terror. He doubled back and forth through and about the clubhouse without success. Then, as it was still early, he telephoned out to Amesdene for his saddle horse, joined a group of taproom golfers and imbibed a long, cold julep while waiting. Folly, a bay mare with an excitable and suspicious disposition, sidled her way through town, having a conniption fit at every encounter with a street car, and cantered through the pines to the big hotel on the other side of the village. Gordon ambled the length of the piazza, snooped into shady parlors and finally searched the register, running his finger back over two weeks of signatures. But that method was rather hopeless, as he realized, for it was more than likely that the name he sought was only a diminutive, or even a nickname. At all events, he found no entry on the register that encouraged inquiry, and he mounted his horse again and rode out to Amesdene.

The big white house with its tall pillars and green blinds, a rather showy replica of an old-fashioned Southern Colonial residence, was closed, for since Gordon's father had died, five years before, the place had lost its attractions for Mrs. Ames, who preferred the dingy brownstone house on Fifth Avenue to any place she knew of. Gor , who liked Aiken for the attractions it provided for idlers of his kind, put up at the hotel in the village, using the Amesdene stables for his horses. Folly whisked up the drive, between rows of soldierly oleanders, and sidled into the stable yard. Culver, head groom and caretaker, was bandaging the ankles of a two-year-old, who, a daughter of the famous Amesdene Adventuress by the equally famous Amesdene Hero, had been named Ingenue and was booked to carry off some blues in the roadster classes at the winter shows. A stable-boy ran out to take Gordon's mount, and Folly disappeared, shaking her head and jangling her bit, determined to remain in the limelight to the last moment. After a talk about Ingenue and the other horses Gordon asked:

"Culver, do you know a big sorrel gelding with three white feet?"

"’Igh in the shoulders, sir?"

"Yes, quite, a big, rangy brute."

"I fancy it's that 'orse of the Morrills, sir. The Tiger they call him, sir, I think."

"Of course! That's where I saw him. Miss Morrill rode him out to the races last year. I knew I'd seen him somewhere."

"Thinking of buying him, sir?"

"No, I don't want him. Too leggy, eh?"

"That's accordin' to fancy, Mr. Ames," replied Culver, chewing thoughtfully on the straw in his mouth. "’E's an oldish 'orse, sir, but 'e's got a lot o' life in 'im yet. At five hundred 'e'd be a rare bargain, sir."

But Gordon was not listening.

"Give me The Goat, Culver. How's his knee, by the way?"

"It's 'ealin', sir." Culver spoke disinterestedly. He didn't approve of The Goat, who was a half-bred Kentucky with little to recommend him but strength and willingness. "’E won't 'urt to be used a bit, sir."

The Goat was led out presently, a small flea-bitten gray with a meek eye and ears so large that Culver, out of Gordon's hearing, referred to him "as that damned mule." The Goat had been purchased under the misapprehension that he had somewhere within him the making of a polo pony, but he had proven too slow for that purpose, and Gordon, admiring the animal for his good disposition, promptly dubbed him The Goat and used him more often than any other saddle horse in the stable. They made a good deal of fun of Gordon and his Goat in the village at first, but now they were familiar sights and had ceased to arouse comment.

After lunch he mounted The Goat again and trotted westward. It was quite within the range of possibility that what had happened once would happen again, and he turned in through the Fessenden gateway, quite prepared for a second meeting. He pulled The Goat down to a walk and followed the bridle path in and out through the forest. But although he passed several riders—for the roads of the estate were open to the public—he saw nothing of the sorrel with the three white stockings or of the girl with the scuffled brown boots. In the end he decided that he had come out too early, and so, having completed the circuit of the place and emerged at the north of the village, he turned around and walked The Goat slowly back again, much to that animal's bewilderment, since walking was something he was very seldom allowed to indulge in. But the return journey was as disappointing as the other, and he jogged back to the club, feeling rather dis with his luck. Of course, he comforted himself, he was bound to find her again sooner or later, for Aiken was too small a place for anyone to hide in, but, like the man in the song, he wanted what he wanted when he wanted it. And, having been luckier than the general run of persons in that particular, he was intolerant of denial. He played a remarkably poor game of golf-pool with Peter Waring and two other men, and went back to the hotel to dress for dinner, blaming himself for having wasted a whole day in searching for a person who didn't want to see him again.