# Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 22

XXII
EGGY! Peggy, is it you, dear?"
He covered her face with kisses and she clung to him silently, tremblingly. For a long moment he held her, everything forgotten in the transport of wondering joy. Then, tearing himself from her arms, he rushed to the window, sent the shade hurtling up, opened the window with a crash and turned on the light.
"Quick," he said, "we must get out of here before it's too late. It's all on fire below. Stop for nothing!" Then, as she raised herself, dazed and bewildered, he threw open the doors of the wardrobe and seized a cloak from a hook. He threw it around her and lifted her to her feet. She swayed and clung to him desperately.
"Come," he said, "and cover your face with your cloak." Half leading and half carrying her he reached the door and pulled it open. A cloud of smoke rolled in upon them. He paused an ​instant, choking in the acrid fumes, and in that instant she pulled back toward the room.
"Wait," she whispered.
He let her go, groping for the door and closing it again. On the floor lay a sheet of paper. She picked it up and thrust it toward him.
"Take it," she said.
He crumpled it into a pocket and, throwing his arm about her again faced the door.
"Can we get out?" she whispered almost calmly.
"We must!" he answered. "Don't think I've found you again only to lose you, Peggy."
"Well——" She raised her face, a little smile trembling about her mouth. He bent and kissed her.
"Peggy!" he murmured with a sob. Then, "God, we must get out of here!" he cried, and pulled the door open. Again the smoke leaped upon them as, closing his eyes, he groped his way along the hall. He searched for his handkerchief, but only a sheet of crumpled paper came from his pocket, and he held that against his nose as they came to the top of the stairs. Down they went. Once she fell, but his arm saved her, and ​then they were on the second floor and the smoke seemed lighter. Water hissed below them and a red glow beat on his closed lids as they reached the last flight. At the top he paused and looked with streaming eyes. Like a great snake a fire hose was pulsing along the hall below, spouting water from a leaky coupling, but the way was clear. Rubber-clad forms passed in and out, and the placid face of a policeman, on guard, peered around the comer of the doorway. He saw them when they were halfway down the stairs and hurried up, exclaiming. He would have taken Peggy in his arms and carried her down, but Gordon held her tightly to him. "I'll look after her," he muttered. The spray from the hose drenched them as they passed, and then they were outside and an excited murmur that was almost a cheer arose from the throng that, held back by the police, watched from a little distance. Gordon opened eyes and lungs to the fresh air and led Peggy down the steps. A youth with a fire badge on his coat and pencil and paper in hand got in the way, volleying questions. Gordon swore at him and pushed him aside. The crowd, sympathetic and admiring, opened and let them through. ​Somewhere in the confusion the reporter lost them. At the end of the block a cabman, pausing for a minute to watch the scene, found himself suddenly supplied with a fare.
"Drive downtown; anywhere for now; I'll tell you later," said Gordon as he helped Peggy into the little musty coupé and followed her.
The cabby snapped his whip and the roar of the engines lessened as the tired horse drew them northward. For a block or two no words were uttered in the cab. Peggy lay in his arms, silent. Now and then a little tremor passed through her. Gordon, his mind still in a state of chaos and his head and lungs aching from the smoke, pressed his face to the brown hair and watched the lights file slowly past the window. The incidents of the last quarter of an hour had taken on the quality of a dream. Presently he muttered wonderingly:
"Peggy, Peggy-in-the-Rain, is it really you?"
She answered with a sigh and a pressure of the hand in his.
"I don't understand it yet," he went on after a moment. "What were you doing in that house?"
"I lived there—ever since I came here."
​"Good Lord! What a place!"
"It was the best I could afford. I haven't—done very well lately."
"But didn't you hear the engines, Peggy? Didn't any one warn you?"
There was no answer; only a shiver as she clung closer to him.
"And I came near going back without finding you!" he exclaimed in sudden horror. "My God, dear, if I had!"
"You wouldn't have," she answered with certainty.
"No, you're right, I believe. God knows how I happened to be there at all, Peggy."
"I expect God does know," she whispered.
"You mean— I wonder!" There was awe in his tone. "If he did, Peggy, I thank Him. When I beat on the door— Didn't you hear me, dear?"
"Yes."
"Then why didn't you answer? Were you too frightened?"
She suddenly began to sob softly against his coat.
"Peggy—sweetheart—don't cry, dear!" He lavished caresses and tender words, and presently ​the sobs ceased. "It's all right now, dearest, isn't it? We've found each other again and nothing is going to part us, Peggy-in-the-Rain. Forget about to-night, dear. You're tired and frightened——"
"Not now." She sighed and pressed closer into his arms. "But I was—horribly. I guess I—couldn't have done it, after all."
"Done it? What, dear?"
After a moment she answered in whispers. "I meant to stay there," she said. "I thought perhaps it would—be over soon that way. That's why I didn't answer when you knocked——"
"Peggy!"
"Yes." She shuddered and his arms crushed her against him. "I didn't recognize your voice, though. Isn't that strange? Sometimes I've thought I could hear it if you even whispered my name a thousand miles away!"
"Oh, my girl, I've whispered it a thousand times a day! But why did you want to do such an awful thing, dear?"
"I was—tired; and discouraged. It was your fault." She laughed a little ghost of a laugh. "The city editor said I was to go to the hotel ​and interview you, and I refused. He—he said I must either go or leave——"
"The damned brute! Who is he?"
"Never mind him, Gordon. He was right; I ought to have gone. But—I couldn't! My week was up to-morrow night and I didn't know where to go next. I was here nearly a month before I got work on the Bulletin. And then I was ill for three days and they let me go. After that I got a place on the Star-Courier. And I made good, only when he gave me that assignment to-night I couldn't take it. And after I got home things looked so sort of—of hopeless that I—I wrote to you." Her voice died away so that he barely caught her words at the last.
"You wrote to me, Peggy?" he exclaimed. "Where is the letter, dear?"
"I gave it to you before we left. Don't you remember?"
He searched his pocket and found it, a crumpled, smoke-saturated ball.
"I have it," he said. "May I read it?"
"Yes, after you leave me."
"I'm not going to leave you," he asserted firmly.
She was silent for a moment. They were ​opposite the park now, the old horse still ambling along and every hinge and spring in the cab squeaking in protest. At last:
"Please, to-night," she begged, gently. "I want you to read that first. I—I won't run away from you. I—I've had my lesson."
"I didn't mean to bother you, dear; only I can't let you get very far away. But I won't trouble you. I've learned my lesson, too, dearest; that I can't do without you."
He lifted her wet face and kissed her on the mouth. Her lips trembled under his.
"I don't want to die now," she whispered.
"No, no, no! You're going to live, Peggy, and be happy!"
"Happy!" she murmured dreamily. Then, suddenly tightening herself in his arms, "Oh, yes," she cried, "I want to be happy! And I shall be, shan't I?"
"Always, sweetheart! Happy together, you and I! For oh, Peggy, Peggy-in-the-Rain, I love you so!"
After a moment he asked: "If you wrote that letter to me, dear, you didn't mean to—to leave me?"
"No. That was after. I had finished the ​letter and was lying on the bed. Then I smelled the smoke and heard Mrs. Judson crying fire, and something whispered to me to stay there and be rid of all the loneliness and weariness and—and aches. And so when they beat on my door I answered and said I'd come right down. Then I pulled the pillow over my head and—and prayed. And I cried a little because I was lonelier than ever. I wanted so much to see you—first, you see. Then you called to me and I thought perhaps you were a fireman and that if I didn't answer you'd go away again. And—and when you did I was terribly frightened. I think then I'd have tried to escape, only I couldn't seem to move. And then—you came back!"
"Thank God I did!" he cried. "Oh, Peggy, why did you try such a thing? What would I have done without you, girl?"
"I thought—you'd forgotten me," she whispered. "The papers said you were sailing around on your yacht and that you were going to marry some one, they didn't say whom. And I didn't quite like you to do that—so soon!"
"I've never forgotten you for an instant, Peggy. Every hour has been full of you. I've ​seen your face in the clouds and the water, and in my dreams I've held you as I'm holding you now. You wrote that I was not to try and find you, Peggy, and I didn't; but, oh, girl dear, it was the hardest task any man was ever set! I hoped you were well and—prospering, dear; if I had known how it was with you I'd have searched and found you. Leona said you would surely write to her or go to her if you were in trouble."
"I couldn't. I was ashamed. She knew—about us, Gordon. I had to tell her. I was so unhappy. Do you care—very much?"
"No. But I never guessed she knew!"
"She's married."
"Yes, and I hope she'll be happy, Peggy."
"I hope so, too. Perhaps she will be. She's very—wise."
The cab came to a stop and the driver asked directions.
"Where shall I take you, dear?" Gordon asked.
"I don't know," she answered untroubledly. "Anywhere. I think I'm too tired and happy to sleep, but I want to lie somewhere in the dark and—think it all over."
​Gordon remembered the name of a small and unpretentious hotel and directed the cabby to drive there. The weary old horse turned slowly about and they creaked off again.
"In the morning I will come for you, dear. You'll want to sleep late, though, won't you?"
She heard the wistfulness in his voice and pressed his hand. "I'll be ready when you come, Gordon, whatever time you say."
"Then—but I won't be unreasonable. Shall we say nine—or ten, Peggy dear?"
"At nine." Then she laughed amusedly. "Do you realize that I haven't a thing with me? Not even a hair-pin?"
"By Jove, what a thoughtless brute I am! We can buy some things, can't we? What time is it?" He looked at his watch, "It's only about ten o'clock!"
"It doesn't matter. I shall get on. I only want to lie down somewhere, Gordon, and think—and think—and think." She nestled her head closer to him. "Just think and be happy, dear," she added in a whisper.
But he wouldn't be satisfied with that, and so the cabman was ordered to find a place where the ​lady could buy things to wear, and presently Peggy took the bill that Gordon gave her and shopped in a little cheap store with a sizzling purple arc light over the entrance, and presently returned with a brown paper package. He took her in his arms again and they went on to the hotel. They reached it very soon.
"I'll go in with you, dear," he said, "and explain about the fire. And in the morning I'll come for you and we'll go back to the house for your things, for I don't think the fire has done much damage."
"There aren't many things I want," she murmured.
"Good-night, dearest. Do you know that you haven't told me yet that you love me, Peggy?"
"I think—I've been telling you all the time," she whispered.
"I know, but I want to hear you say it, sweetheart. You do?"
"I do," she answered solemnly.
The clerk was sympathetic as he turned the register around with one hand and thumped the office bell with the other.
​"We'll look after the lady, sir," he said. "Don't worry."
With pen in hand Gordon found himself in a quandary. But one name was as good as another, and it wouldn't do to let the clerk see his hesitation. So he signed "Miss Mills, City," smiling at the thought that he was still uncertain of her name. They said good-night at the elevator door, shaking hands under the pessimistic regard of the page who waited with the paper parcel.
"At nine," said Gordon.
"I'll be ready," she answered.
Then the elevator shot upward and a moment later Gordon was out on the sidewalk, lighting a cigar, and wondering if it were not all just a dream.