XIII
S has been remarked just once before, I forget by whom, this world is a small place after all. The remark is equally true of New York City. I presume that a mathematician with a stub of a lead pencil and the back of an envelope could speedily figure out for you what chance Gordon had of meeting Peggy-in-the-Rain again. And I dare say the mathematician's result would be very discouraging. However, we don't require the mathematician's services, for within eighteen hours of the time the Siren anchored in East River the unexpected and hoped-for occurred.
The Siren returned just at twilight on a Friday in the second week of May. The next forenoon Gordon, returning uptown in his car, the chauffeur driving, cried "Stop!" at the top of his voice, threw open the door, and, before the car had ceased momentum, leaped to the pavement between a dray and a Columbus Avenue trolley, dodged for his life and gained the sidewalk. But at eleven o'clock of a bright spring morning the east side of Broadway at Eighteenth Street is quite likely to be well thronged, and this morning was no exception. Gordon hurried southward, pushing and elbowing, with scant regard for the comfort of his fellow pedestrians, searching the crowd ahead with anxious eyes. He had almost given up hope when, the throng thinning at Seventeenth Street, he saw her walking briskly ahead of him. He caught up to her just as, glancing right and left, she was about to cross to the park. She turned before he could speak and her face paled and the deep blue eyes grew suddenly large and dark. Gordon's own cheeks whitened under their tan, and it was not until her small fingers lay in his insistent hand that words came to him.
"You see," he said then, with a smile that wouldn't stay straight, "I was right. The gods are kind, Miss Peggy-in-the-Rain."
The color crept slowly back into her face as she withdrew her hand. She smiled constrainedly. "Now you know," she said with a voice that, attempting to speak lightly, trembled a little, "what becomes of me when it doesn't rain." She gathered courage by looking away from his eager eyes. "You've discovered my secret, haven't you?"
"Yes," he answered.
Something in his tone brought her glance back swiftly, inquiringly. What she saw brought a little gasp to her breath.
"Yes," he went on meaningly. "I have discovered your secret, Peggy. And it's only fair, for I've told you mine already."
"Yours?" she asked, with a careless laugh that had a break in it. "Have you a secret, too?" She hurried away from danger. "It's been nice to see you again. I suppose you'll soon be off for the summer?" She moved toward the curb. "Good-by, Mr. Ames." She smiled and nodded merrily.
"Oh, but I am going with you," he said. "I'm not going to trust too often to the gods, you know."
She paused uncertainly. Then, "Please don't," she begged earnestly. "I'm on an assignment; I'm already late"
"Then you must tell me where I can find you. Life hasn't been very—pleasant since I saw you last, Peggy-in-the-Rain."
"Oh, please! Don't let us go through all that again, Mr. Ames! I've showed you how—how impossible it is"
"Yes, I know."
"Well"
"Impossibilities don't interest me, Miss Peggy. I want to see you again; I must see you again. You must tell me where you live."
She shook her head.
"Then I shall go with you now," he said calmly.
She looked at him appealingly, but found no encouragement in the firm set of his mouth. She looked frowningly down Broadway, swinging nervously the small black bag she carried. Finally,
"I can't have you call on me where I board." she said thoughtfully. "You know why. And I don't want you to come with me now." She hesitated. "Won't you please go away and—and let me alone?"
He shook his head. "I can't do that," he answered simply. "It—it's too late, Peggy, too late for both of us."
"Oh, it isn't!" she cried impatiently. "Please don't talk so! Why can't you let me be? What have I done to you"
"You don't want me to let you be, Peggy!" He captured the hand that held the bag. "You're not honest with me! Look at me, Peggy-in-the-Rain, and tell me I'm wrong, tell me you don't care!"
"You are—I don't—oh, please"
"You don't look at me, though! Look at me and tell me you don't care, Peggy dear! Do that and I'll—I'll go!"
Very slowly her eyes went up to his, faltered, fled and came back. Very dark they were in the pallor of her face. Her lips parted and Gordon bent to hear.
"I … don't …" she whispered faintly, their eyes holding. He waited. Finally,
"What?" he asked softly.
"Care …"
"For"
"You!" She said it bravely at last and tore her eyes away. She was trembling. Gordon smiled happily.
"Then—I'm to go?" he asked.
She nodded vigorously.
"But say it, Peggy—dear."
After a moment, "You're to … go," she said. "Oh, please, please don't make it any harder!"
"Then it is hard, Peggy?"
There was no answer.
"Well, I will go," he said after a moment, "for a little while, Peggy."
"But—you said," she faltered.
"That I'd—leave you alone?" he asked with a little laugh. "Yes, but you were to tell me you didn't care, dear."
"I did!"
"No." He shook his head. "The words said it; Peggy, but your eyes—Shall I tell you what your eyes said?"
Again there was no reply. He laughed softly, triumphantly.
"If you must go, Peggy, go. I won't keep you any longer. But you must tell me first where I am to see you again, and when."
"No, this is good-by."
"It is not good-by. There can be no good-by between us, Peggy-in-the-Rain! To-night at half-past seven I shall be here at this corner in my car. Will you come?"
"I—can't!"
"At half-past seven, Peggy?"
After a long moment she lifted her head tiredly and looked at him with a little wan smile.
"At half-past seven, Peggy?" he repeated.
"Yes," she said quite evenly, "only"
"Only what, Peggy-in-the-Rain?"
"I think—I hate you," she replied quietly.
He laughed again very softly, "Hate me to your heart's content, dear," he answered, "only come!"
She went slowly over the crossing, a slim, black-clad figure. Gordon, watching, drew a deep sigh and turned away. She would not look back; he knew that. He no longer felt triumphant, only vividly alive and a little bit dizzy, as though he had taken some strange drug. He wanted a drink badly and, taking the wheel, sped the car to the club.