XI
UT the next morning his confidence had waned, and, seated alone at the breakfast table—his mother never came down in the morning—with a litter of papers and mail about him, he called himself several kinds of a fool, addressing his remarks sotto voce to the silver coffee-pot which purred enticingly over its blue flame. He had got out of bed feeling on edge, and neither his mail, largely composed of begging letters, invitations to subscribe to various charities and glowing offers of investment securities, nor the morning papers had added to his happiness. The papers were full of the Commerce Commission's probe into the methods of the Central and Western Railway. It was a nasty mess, and Gordon frowned and muttered as he glanced through news stories and editorials. A financial journal, actuated by friendly motives, stated that the Administration could scarcely afford at present to antagonize the powerful interests behind the Central and Western system, adding with optimistic naïvete that the opinion was current at the Capitol that the Commission would be persuaded to delay the inquiry until Autumn at least. The "yellow" sheets clamored for "a full and impartial probe into the high-handed and unlawful methods of the Ames System." (A week later one at least of these sheets changed its tune. It doubtless had a good reason.) Gordon wondered helplessly how his father would have dealt with such a situation, realizing the next moment that had Patterson Ames been alive the situation would never have arisen. His scheme to wrest the conduct of affairs from those at present in power looked, in the wan light of a rainy morning, chimerical to the point of absurdity. After all, could he do any better in the conduct of the road's affairs? Of the practical side of railroading he knew almost nothing. He cursed his ignorance and the inertia of helplessness that came from it. This morning he was all for letting well alone. Perhaps Lovering and the others were right, and the methods he had on several occasions tentatively suggested were impractical. And then, at a tangent, his thoughts for the fiftieth time, flew off to a slim little black-gowned figure seen against a silvery curtain of rain, to a pair of violet-blue eyes that seemed to hold in their depths all the mysteries of life.
He called himself a fool for letting her go without discovering her name, where she lived. Yesterday he had believed the absurd things he had said, believed that the Fate which had thrown them together twice would do so again. To-day he frowned at his confidence and had scant faith in Fate's administration. His feeling for the girl was not love. She pleased him, fascinated him, excited him, piqued his curiosity. He wanted her and meant to have her, and he never doubted that ultimately she would come to him. He was too wise to expect her to fall into his arms at once; he wouldn't have it so; but in the end—well, she liked him already; she had owned to that, and he had seen it for himself; and sooner or later Youth rebels against poverty and lovelessness. He was ready to make any concessions save marriage. Pushing aside an almost untasted breakfast, he arose to tramp the length of the big dining-room, hands in pockets and a frown on his face. She should have anything she wanted, anything in his power to give. Of course, in such cases, the woman sacrificed more than the man; all the wealth in the world could never quite make up for what she yielded; but it was the woman's lot to do it, she always had and always would while the world spun. And "respectability" couldn't keep a woman from growing faded, couldn't give her beautiful things, couldn't save her from loneliness and heartaches, couldn't even provide bread and butter!
At the broad window he paused and threw aside the heavy draperies impatiently. Below him a little space of grass showed the first adventurous spears of the crocuses. Beyond the grass stood a high fence of ornamental iron. Beyond that was the side street, rain-beaten, puddled. The Avenue was visible for half a block. A big touring car swept by, its curtains closed tightly against the pelter of rain. A hansom followed, one of the few survivors of a dying race. Behind the half-drawn glass Gordon caught a glimpse of a man and a girl. Something that was almost a shiver went over him and his pulses raced furiously for a moment. If only it were he and Peggy there in the hansom! And why not? What was youth for if not for love and its pleasures? What was wealth for if not to be obeyed? He would find her, find her now, at once, his Peggy-in-the-Rain! What were all her silly objections weighed against his want of her, her want of him? For she did care for him, she must care for him. And if she cared
A vision of her face came to him, her shadowy eyes raised as they had been raised yesterday, half-frightened, half angry. His heart stirred and he smiled tenderly.
"Ah, but I'll be good to you, Peggy-in-the-Rain," he murmured. "So good to you, dear!"
And then the realization that he neither knew who she was nor where to find her obtruded and he felt sick with a sense of powerlessness. What a fool he had been with his silly heroics yesterday! Why, he might not find her for days, for weeks! He might never find her! Might never see her again! The thought was intolerable, producing a veritable panic of despair until he cast it off with a grim tightening of his lips and a grimmer resolution to find her at any cost. After all. New York was but a small place. Why, he might run into her to-day or to-morrow! And if not, there was still Leona Morrill. And if Leona still refused, why, there were detective agencies! But he wouldn't go to one of those until every other means had failed. Of course, Leona's mother knew who Peggy was, and probably her father as well, but Gordon didn't doubt that they had each been sworn to silence. The Morrill servants might be bribed, but aside from the caddishness of it, he felt that he had virtually bound himself not to seek his information in that manner. First of all, then, to see Leona again!
Hurd came in with noiseless steps to clear the table.
"Let me have those letters over here, will you, Hurd?" Gordon asked. He seated himself by the window, drew a pencil from his notebook and went over the correspondence on the broad arm of the chair, marking some of the communications with an O, others with an X and crumpling up the rest. At eleven Miss Creed would come and attend to them, inditing polite negatives in her copper-plate hand to the X's and equally polite affirmatives or acceptances to the O's. An invaluable person. Miss Creed, attending to both Gordon's and Mrs. Ames's correspondence, keeping the latter's accounts, both personal and household, and scheduling her engagements. There were two invitations in his mail, and Gordon wanted to decline them both, but ended by marking them for acceptance and noting them in his book; at one or both of the houses he was fairly certain to meet Leona Morrill.
"Hurd," he said, as he gathered the letters together, "if you wanted to find some one in New York how would you go about it? I mean, of course, if you didn't know where they lived."
"Well, sir, there's the directory."
"Um, yes; but supposing you didn't know the—the gentleman's last name?"
Hurd considered, thoughtfully regarding the vase of golden daffodils in his hand.
"Well, sir, that would complicate matters."
"Yes. Consider them complicated, Hurd. Then what would you do?"
"I think, sir, I'd advertise in the Herald."
"Um."
"Has the gentleman a place of business, sir?"
"Er—yes, I think so, but I don't know where it is or what the business is. Further complications, eh?"
"Yes, sir. I'd say advertise, Mr. Gordon."
"But how the dickens— Look here, I can't say 'If the gentleman named Peggy, last name unknown, will—'" The butler's expression of surprise, momentary but acute, brought Gordon to a stop and a hurried explanation. "Yes, funny name, isn't it? It's just—just a nickname, you see."
"Yes, sir," replied Hurd, expressionless now of face and voice. "It would be difficult in that case, sir."
"Damned difficult! Supposing, then, we cut out the advertising project. Then what?"
Hurd set the flowers on the sideboard the better to give his full mind to the problem. Hurd's father, an estimable English gardener, now deceased, would have scratched his head frankly and inelegantly. Hurd, quite as estimable and more polished, stroked his chin, thereby perhaps supplying the same stimulus.
"Does—does the gentleman want to be found, sir?"
"I wonder!" Gordon studied that question a moment. Finally, "Let us suppose that he is not averse to it, Hurd," he replied. "Then what?"
"Well, it makes a difference, Mr. Gordon, and that's why I made so bold as to ask," explained Hurd apologetically. "If a man doesn't want to be found it's pretty hard to find him in New York, sir. In a case of that sort I'd put the matter in the hands of the police."
Gordon shook his head. "A bit vulgar, eh, Hurd?"
"Perhaps, sir. Then there's private detectives, sir; very smart some of them, I've heard; and very discreet, sir."
"Well, I suppose it comes to that, Hurd," said Gordon with a sigh. "I like the idea of advertising, but when you don't know the la—the gentleman's name Look here, Hurd, I might as well tell you that it's a lady I have in mind."
"Thank you, sir. That ought to make it easier."
"Really? And why?
Hurd coughed discreetly behind his hand and hesitated a moment. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Gordon, but the ladies usually want to be found, sir, if you see what I mean. Intending no disrespect to the lady that's lost, Mr. Gordon."
"All right. But, hang it, I'm not at all sure this lady does want to be found!"
Hurd's expression showed that to his mind that put an entirely different complexion on the affair; in short, that matters were again complicated. He coughed dubiously.
"Perhaps, sir, an advertisement might do it after all. Suppose you referred to the young lady"
"Young lady, Hurd?"
"Beg pardon, sir. I should have said the lady."
"Very well," said Gordon with a smile. "Go ahead."
"Suppose you referred to the lady as Miss—I think you said Peggy, sir?"
"Quite right; Peggy."
"Referred to her as Miss Peggy Blank, sir, recalling—ah—any incident that might—might let her know you were meaning her, sir"
"I know the style you mean, Hurd. 'Will young and attractive brunette who noticed handsome, stout gentleman in lobby of New Amsterdam Theatre last evening communicate with ardent admirer? Object matrimony.' That's the style, eh?"
"Well, sir, not quite. More like the lawyers' advertisements, sir. More—more respectable, perhaps, Mr. Gordon. 'If Miss Peggy Blank will communicate with the undersigned she will learn of something to her advantage.' Then sign your name, sir."
"The devil! I'm afraid that wouldn't do. So many others would read it, Hurd, besides the young—the lady in question. And I am lamentably susceptible to ridicule. No, I think an assumed name would be better."
"Very good, sir. Perhaps it would be best to let a lawyer do it for you and sign his name to the notice, sir."
"Not a bad idea, Hurd! Distinctly clever! Thank you. And—er—Hurd."
"Yes, sir?"
"Kindly forget our consultation. Especially the lady's name, Hurd."
"Oh, most certainly, sir. Anything else, Mr. Gordon?"
"Nothing else. Here's the mail for Miss Creed. I'm going out. I may not be home for luncheon."
"Thank you, sir."
Gordon arose and went again to the window, drumming thoughtfully on the pane. Then, "You said that if the lady didn't want to be found it would complicate things, I think?"
"Depending, sir, on how much."
"How much?" asked Gordon, turning from his contemplation of the dreary morning world. "How much what?"
"How much she didn't want to be found, sir," replied Hurd.