Peggy Raymond's Vacation; Or, Friendly Terrace Transplanted

by Harriet L. Smith

Jerry slipped through the door without replying. Indeed he had hardly spoken since he had uttered his threat against ’Lish Snooks. As he stepped out into the night, he began to run, though his face was not set toward home, and his confused thoughts recognized no especial destination. But fast as he ran, the realization of what had happened kept pace with him, and when at last he tripped over a tangle of vines, and went sprawling, he made no effort to rise, but lay motionless, his hot tears falling on the grass.

He could never tell her. That was the bitterest drop in his cup of grief. The words he might have said yesterday could not be spoken now. It had been in his power to make her glad, to bring a sparkle into her eyes. He had had his chance and refused it. Alas! the sorrowful wisdom that one day had brought, a wisdom that had come too late for him to profit by it.

He did not know how long he lay there, his tears mingling with the falling dew. He struggled to his feet at last, limping a little, for the fall had been severe, and went on his way, still without conscious purpose. And when long after a silvery expanse shone ahead of him, he did not realize for the moment that his aimless wanderings had brought him to Snake River. He stumbled on till he reached the edge of the stream and saw in the black shadow of the trees a dugout half filled with water. For the first time in his night of wandering, a vague purpose took shape in his throbbing brain.

This was Snake River. And here was his boat awaiting him. He would take it and drift down the stream, meeting the men in the morning. There was no moon, but the night was clear and starlit, and except for the shadows cast by the trees on the bank, the river looked a luminous highway. Though he did not know the hour, he felt sure that it could not be long before the east began to grow light with the first promise of the sunrise. It would not be worth while to go home.

He fell to bailing the awkward craft, and found a certain relief in the necessity for methodical work. The water trickled in again, to be sure, but less rapidly than he could empty it out. He plugged the largest crevice with his handkerchief, untied the rotting rope, and pushed out from under the shadows into the centre of the stream. Then he let the current have its way, using an oar now and then to keep the dugout from floating ashore, or going aground on one of the numerous islands which started out of the water as if to bar his progress. Except as he roused himself for this purpose, he sat huddled on his seat without moving, his head resting on his folded arms.

The birds discovered that the morning was coming before Jerry found it out. Jubilant notes of welcome to the new day sounded above his head. He straightened himself, and made an effort to throw off the lethargy which had succeeded his paroxysms of grief. The horizon in the east was banded with yellow, and overhead the sky blushed rosily. He looked about him and tried to locate himself.

“Guess I must be just back of Denbeigh’s farm. Yes, that’s their windmill. I’d better row awhile. I’m a good way from Pine Knoll yet.” Again he bailed out the boat and took up the oars. The dugout moved ahead like a plodding farm-horse that feels the spur and responds reluctantly.

Morning was coming as radiantly as if there were no sorrow in the world. With dull incredulity Jerry watched the sky kindle and the earth flash awake. It hurt him, all this glow and sparkle, this sweetness in the air, and the sound of the birds singing. He thought how Peggy would have loved it all and his throat ached, and he lifted his hand to his eyes to clear his vision. Then he pulled hard on his left oar, for the current was swinging him around toward a little island that rose suddenly out of the mist like an apparition.

All at once a figure stood out against the tangled green, a slender figure in white. Jerry dropped both oars, and put his hands before his eyes. When he looked again the vision had not vanished. Its hand moved in an appealing gesture.

Jerry found himself rowing frantically, a hope in his heart so like madness that he dared not let himself think what it was that he hoped for. The dugout crashed against the willow where Peggy had tied her canoe the afternoon before. And in the unreal light of the dawn, a pale, tremulous Peggy stretched out her arms with a cry. “Oh, it’s Jerry! Oh, Jerry, how came it to be you?” It had been a night of weeping for many, but Peggy’s tears had waited till now.