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diff --git a/1214-h/1214-h.htm b/1214-h/1214-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fed9837 --- /dev/null +++ b/1214-h/1214-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11808 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Street of Seven Stars, by Mary Roberts Rinehart + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1214 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Mary Roberts Rinehart + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + The old stucco house sat back in a garden, or what must once have been a + garden, when that part of the Austrian city had been a royal game + preserve. Tradition had it that the Empress Maria Theresa had used the + building as a hunting-lodge, and undoubtedly there was something royal in + the proportions of the salon. With all the candles lighted in the great + glass chandelier, and no sidelights, so that the broken paneling was + mercifully obscured by gloom, it was easy to believe that the great + empress herself had sat in one of the tall old chairs and listened to + anecdotes of questionable character; even, if tradition may be believed, + related not a few herself. + </p> + <p> + The chandelier was not lighted on this rainy November night. Outside in + the garden the trees creaked and bent before the wind, and the heavy + barred gate, left open by the last comer, a piano student named Scatchett + and dubbed “Scatch”—the gate slammed to and fro monotonously, giving + now and then just enough pause for a hope that it had latched itself, a + hope that was always destroyed by the next gust. + </p> + <p> + One candle burned in the salon. Originally lighted for the purpose of + enabling Miss Scatchett to locate the score of a Tschaikowsky concerto, it + had been moved to the small center table, and had served to give light if + not festivity to the afternoon coffee and cakes. It still burned, a + gnarled and stubby fragment, in its china holder; round it the disorder of + the recent refreshment, three empty cups, a half of a small cake, a + crumpled napkin or two,—there were never enough to go round,—and + on the floor the score of the concerto, clearly abandoned for the things + of the flesh. + </p> + <p> + The room was cold. The long casement windows creaked in time with the + slamming of the gate and the candle flickered in response to a draft under + the doors. The concerto flapped and slid along the uneven old floor. At + the sound a girl in a black dress, who had been huddled near the tile + stove, rose impatiently and picked it up. There was no impatience, + however, in the way she handled the loose sheets. She put them together + carefully, almost tenderly, and placed them on the top of the grand piano, + anchoring them against the draft with a china dog from the stand. + </p> + <p> + The room was very bare—a long mirror between two of the windows, + half a dozen chairs, a stand or two, and in a corner the grand piano. + There were no rugs—the bare floor stretched bleakly into dim corners + and was lost. The crystal pendants of the great chandelier looked like + stalactites in a cave. The girl touched the piano keys; they were ice + under her fingers. + </p> + <p> + In a sort of desperation she drew a chair underneath the chandelier, and + armed with a handful of matches proceeded to the unheard-of extravagance + of lighting it, not here and there, but throughout as high as she could + reach, standing perilously on her tiptoes on the chair. + </p> + <p> + The resulting illumination revealed a number of things: It showed that the + girl was young and comely and that she had been crying; it revealed the + fact that the coal-pail was empty and the stove almost so; it let the + initiated into the secret that the blackish fluid in the cups had been + made with coffee extract that had been made of Heaven knows what; and it + revealed in the cavernous corner near the door a number of trunks. The + girl, having lighted all the candles, stood on the chair and looked at the + trunks. She was very young, very tragic, very feminine. A door slammed + down the hall and she stopped crying instantly. Diving into one of those + receptacles that are a part of the mystery of the sex, she rubbed a + chamois skin over her nose and her reddened eyelids. + </p> + <p> + The situation was a difficult one, but hardly, except to Harmony Wells, a + tragedy. Few of us are so constructed that the Suite “Arlesienne” will + serve as a luncheon, or a faulty fingering of the Waldweben from + “Siegfried” will keep us awake at night. Harmony had lain awake more than + once over some crime against her namesake, had paid penances of early + rising and two hours of scales before breakfast, working with stiffened + fingers in her cold little room where there was no room for a stove, and + sitting on the edge of the bed in a faded kimono where once pink + butterflies sported in a once blue-silk garden. Then coffee, rolls, and + honey, and back again to work, with little Scatchett at the piano in the + salon beyond the partition, wearing a sweater and fingerless gloves and + holding a hot-water bottle on her knees. Three rooms beyond, down the + stone hall, the Big Soprano, doing Madama Butterfly in bad German, helped + to make an encircling wall of sound in the center of which one might + practice peacefully. + </p> + <p> + Only the Portier objected. Morning after morning, crawling out at dawn + from under his featherbed in the lodge below, he opened his door and + listened to Harmony doing penance above; and morning after morning he + shook his fist up the stone staircase. + </p> + <p> + “Gott im Himmel!” he would say to his wife, fumbling with the knot of his + mustache bandage, “what a people, these Americans! So much noise and no + music!” + </p> + <p> + “And mad!” grumbled his wife. “All the day coal, coal to heat; and at + night the windows open! Karl the milkboy has seen it.” + </p> + <p> + And now the little colony was breaking up. The Big Soprano was going back + to her church, grand opera having found no place for her. Scatch was + returning to be married, her heart full, indeed, of music, but her head + much occupied with the trousseau in her trunks. The Harmar sisters had + gone two weeks before, their funds having given out. Indeed, funds were + very low with all of them. The “Bitte zum speisen” of the little German + maid often called them to nothing more opulent than a stew of beef and + carrots. + </p> + <p> + Not that all had been sordid. The butter had gone for opera tickets, and + never was butter better spent. And there had been gala days—a + fruitcake from Harmony's mother, a venison steak at Christmas, and once or + twice on birthdays real American ice cream at a fabulous price and worth + it. Harmony had bought a suit, too, a marvel of tailoring and cheapness, + and a willow plume that would have cost treble its price in New York. Oh, + yes, gala days, indeed, to offset the butter and the rainy winter and the + faltering technic and the anxiety about money. For that they all had + always, the old tragedy of the American music student abroad—the + expensive lessons, the delays in getting to the Master himself, the + contention against German greed or Austrian whim. And always back in one's + mind the home people, to whom one dares not confess that after nine months + of waiting, or a year, one has seen the Master once or not at all. + </p> + <p> + Or—and one of the Harmar girls had carried back this scar in her + soul—to go back rejected, as one of the unfit, on whom even the + undermasters refuse to waste time. That has been, and often. Harmony stood + on her chair and looked at the trunks. The Big Soprano was calling down + the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Scatch,” she was shouting briskly, “where is my hairbrush?” + </p> + <p> + A wail from Scatch from behind a closed door. + </p> + <p> + “I packed it, Heaven knows where! Do you need it really? Haven't you got a + comb?” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as I get something on I'm coming to shake you. Half the teeth are + out of my comb. I don't believe you packed it. Look under the bed.” + </p> + <p> + Silence for a moment, while Scatch obeyed for the next moment. + </p> + <p> + “Here it is,” she called joyously. “And here are Harmony's bedroom + slippers. Oh, Harry, I found your slippers!” The girl got down off the + chair and went to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, dear,” she said. “I'm coming in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + She went to the mirror, which had reflected the Empress Maria Theresa, and + looked at her eyes. They were still red. Perhaps if she opened the window + the air would brighten them. + </p> + <p> + Armed with the brush, little Scatchett hurried to the Big Soprano's room. + She flung the brush on the bed and closed the door. She held her shabby + wrapper about her and listened just inside the door. There were no + footsteps, only the banging of the gate in the wind. She turned to the Big + Soprano, heating a curling iron in the flame of a candle, and held out her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” she said. “Under my bed! Ten kronen!” + </p> + <p> + Without a word the Big Soprano put down her curling-iron, and ponderously + getting down on her knees, candle in hand, inspected the dusty floor + beneath her bed. It revealed nothing but a cigarette, on which she + pounced. Still squatting, she lighted the cigarette in the candle flame + and sat solemnly puffing it. + </p> + <p> + “The first for a week,” she said. “Pull out the wardrobe, Scatch; there + may be another relic of my prosperous days.” + </p> + <p> + But little Scatchett was not interested in Austrian cigarettes with a + government monopoly and gilt tips. She was looking at the ten-kronen + piece. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the other?” she asked in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “In my powder-box.” + </p> + <p> + Little Scatchett lifted the china lid and dropped the tiny gold-piece. + </p> + <p> + “Every little bit,” she said flippantly, but still in a whisper, “added to + what she's got, makes just a little bit more.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you thought of a place to leave it for her? If Rosa finds it, it's + good-bye. Heaven knows it was hard enough to get together, without losing + it now. I'll have to jump overboard and swim ashore at New York—I + haven't even a dollar for tips.” + </p> + <p> + “New York!” said little Scatchett with her eyes glowing. “If Henry meets + me I know he will—” + </p> + <p> + “Tut!” The Big Soprano got up cumbrously and stood looking down. “You and + your Henry! Scatchy, child, has it occurred to your maudlin young mind + that money isn't the only thing Harmony is going to need? She's going to + be alone—and this is a bad town to be alone in. And she is not like + us. You have your Henry. I'm a beefy person who has a stomach, and I'm + thankful for it. But she is different—she's got the thing that you + are as well without, the thing that my lack of is sending me back to fight + in a church choir instead of grand opera.” + </p> + <p> + Little Scatchett was rather puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “Temperament?” she asked. It had always been accepted in the little colony + that Harmony was a real musician, a star in their lesser firmament. + </p> + <p> + The Big Soprano sniffed. + </p> + <p> + “If you like,” she said. “Soul is a better word. Only the rich ought to + have souls, Scatchy, dear.” + </p> + <p> + This was over the younger girl's head, and anyhow Harmony was coming down + the hall. + </p> + <p> + “I thought, under her pillow,” she whispered. “She'll find it—” + </p> + <p> + Harmony came in, to find the Big Soprano heating a curler in the flame of + a candle. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + Harmony found the little hoard under her pillow that night when, having + seen Scatch and the Big Soprano off at the station, she had come back + alone to the apartment on the Siebensternstrasse. The trunks were gone + now. Only the concerto score still lay on the piano, where little + Scatchett, mentally on the dock at New York with Henry's arms about her, + had forgotten it. The candles in the great chandelier had died in tears of + paraffin that spattered the floor beneath. One or two of the sockets were + still smoking, and the sharp odor of burning wickends filled the room. + </p> + <p> + Harmony had come through the garden quickly. She had had an uneasy sense + of being followed, and the garden, with its moaning trees and slamming + gate and the great dark house in the background, was a forbidding place at + best. She had rung the bell and had stood, her back against the door, eyes + and ears strained in the darkness. She had fancied that a figure had + stopped outside the gate and stood looking in, but the next moment the + gate had swung to and the Portier was fumbling at the lock behind her. + </p> + <p> + The Portier had put on his trousers over his night garments, and his + mustache bandage gave him a sinister expression, rather augmented when he + smiled at her. The Portier liked Harmony in spite of the early morning + practicing; she looked like a singer at the opera for whom he cherished a + hidden attachment. The singer had never seen him, but it was for her he + wore the mustache bandage. Perhaps some day—hopefully! One must be + ready! + </p> + <p> + The Portier gave Harmony a tiny candle and Harmony held out his tip, the + five Hellers of custom. But the Portier was keen, and Rosa was a niece of + his wife and talked more than she should. He refused the tip with a + gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Bitte, Fraulein!” he said through the bandage. “It is for me a pleasure + to admit you. And perhaps if the Fraulein is cold, a basin of soup.” + </p> + <p> + The Portier was not pleasant to the eye. His nightshirt was open over his + hairy chest and his feet were bare to the stone floor. But to Harmony that + lonely night he was beautiful. She tried to speak and could not but she + held out her hand in impulsive gratitude, and the Portier in his best + manner bent over and kissed it. As she reached the curve of the stone + staircase, carrying her tiny candle, the Portier was following her with + his eyes. She was very like the girl of the opera. + </p> + <p> + The clang of the door below and the rattle of the chain were comforting to + Harmony's ears. From the safety of the darkened salon she peered out into + the garden again, but no skulking figure detached itself from the shadows, + and the gate remained, for a marvel, closed. + </p> + <p> + It was when—having picked up her violin in a very passion of + loneliness, only to put it down when she found that the familiar sounds + echoed and reechoed sadly through the silent rooms—it was when she + was ready for bed that she found the money under her pillow, and a scrawl + from Scatchy, a breathless, apologetic scrawl, little Scatchett having + adored her from afar, as the plain adore the beautiful, the mediocre the + gifted:— + </p> + <p> + DEAREST HARRY [here a large blot, Scatchy being addicted to blots]: I am + honestly frightened when I think what we are doing. But, oh, my dear, if + you could know how pleased we are with ourselves you'd not deny us this + pleasure. Harry, you have it—the real thing, you know, whatever it + is—and I haven't. None of the rest of us had. And you must stay. To + go now, just when lessons would mean everything—well, you must not + think of it. We have scads to take us home, more than we need, both of us, + or at least—well, I'm lying, and you know it. But we have enough, by + being careful, and we want you to have this. It isn't much, but it may + help. Ten Kronen of it I found to-night under my bed, and it may be yours + anyhow. + </p> + <p> + “Sadie [Sadie was the Big Soprano] keeps saying awful things about our + leaving you here, and she has rather terrified me. You are so beautiful, + Harry,—although you never let us tell you so. And Sadie says you + have a soul and I haven't, and that souls are deadly things to have. I + feel to-night that in urging you to stay I am taking the burden of your + soul on me! Do be careful, Harry. If any one you do not know speaks to you + call a policeman. And be sure you get into a respectable pension. There + are queer ones. + </p> + <p> + “Sadie and I think that if you can get along on what you get from home—you + said your mother would get insurance, didn't you?—and will keep this + as a sort of fund to take you home if anything should go wrong—. But + perhaps we are needlessly worried. In any case, of course it's a loan, and + you can preserve that magnificent independence of yours by sending it back + when you get to work to make your fortune. And if you are doubtful at all, + just remember that hopeful little mother of yours who sent you over to get + what she had never been able to have for herself, and who planned this for + you from the time you were a kiddy and she named you Harmony. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not saying good-bye. I can't. + </p> + <p> + “SCATCH.” + </p> + <p> + That night, while the Portier and his wife slept under their crimson + feather beds and the crystals of the chandelier in the salon shook in the + draft as if the old Austrian court still danced beneath, Harmony fought + her battle. And a battle it was. Scatchy and the Big Soprano had not known + everything. There had been no insurance on her father's life; the little + mother was penniless. A married sister would care for her, but what then? + Harmony had enough remaining of her letter of credit to take her home, and + she had—the hoard under the pillow. To go back and teach the violin; + or to stay and finish under the master, be presented, as he had promised + her, at a special concert in Vienna, with all the prestige at home that + that would mean, and its resulting possibility of fame and fortune—which? + </p> + <p> + She decided to stay. There might be a concert or so, and she could teach + English. The Viennese were crazy about English. Some of the stores + advertised “English Spoken.” That would be something to fall back on, a + clerkship during the day. + </p> + <p> + Toward dawn she discovered that she was very cold, and she went into the + Big Soprano's deserted and disordered room. The tile stove was warm and + comfortable, but on the toilet table there lay a disreputable comb with + most of the teeth gone. Harmony kissed this unromantic object! Which + reveals the fact that, genius or not, she was only a young and rather + frightened girl, and that every atom of her ached with loneliness. + </p> + <p> + She did not sleep at all, but sat curled up on the bed with her feet under + her and thought things out. At dawn the Portier, crawling out into the + cold from under his feathers, opened the door into the hall and listened. + She was playing, not practicing, and the music was the barcarolle from the + “Tales” of Hoffmann. Standing in the doorway in his night attire, his + chest open to the frigid morning air, his face upraised to the floor + above, he hummed the melody in a throaty tenor. + </p> + <p> + When the music had died away he went in and closed the door sheepishly. + His wife stood over the stove, a stick of firewood in her hand. She eyed + him. + </p> + <p> + “So! It is the American Fraulein now!” + </p> + <p> + “I did but hum a little. She drags out my heart with her music.” He + fumbled with his mustache bandage, which was knotted behind, keeping one + eye on his wife, whose morning pleasure it was to untie it for him. + </p> + <p> + “She leaves to-day,” she announced, ignoring the knot. + </p> + <p> + “Why? She is alone. Rosa says—” + </p> + <p> + “She leaves to-day!” + </p> + <p> + The knot was hopeless now, double-tied and pulled to smooth compactness. + The Portier jerked at it. + </p> + <p> + “No Fraulein stays here alone. It is not respectable. And what saw I last + night, after she entered and you stood moon-gazing up the stair after her! + A man in the gateway!” + </p> + <p> + The Portier was angry. He snarled something through the bandage, which had + slipped down over his mouth, and picked up a great knife. + </p> + <p> + “She will stay if she so desire,” he muttered furiously, and, raising the + knife, he cut the knotted string. His mustache, faintly gray and sweetly + up-curled, stood revealed. + </p> + <p> + “She will stay!” he repeated. “And when you see men at the gate, let me + know. She is an angel!” + </p> + <p> + “And she looks like the angel at the opera, hein?” + </p> + <p> + This was a crushing blow. The Portier wilted. Such things come from + telling one's cousin, who keeps a brushshop, what is in one's heart. + Yesterday his wife had needed a brush, and to-day—Himmel, the girl + must go! + </p> + <p> + Harmony knew also that she must go. The apartment was large and expensive; + Rosa ate much and wasted more. She must find somewhere a tiny room with + board, a humble little room but with a stove. It is folly to practice with + stiffened fingers. A room where her playing would not annoy people, that + was important. + </p> + <p> + She paid Rosa off that morning out of money left for that purpose. Rosa + wept. She said she would stay with the Fraulein for her keep, because it + was not the custom for young ladies to be alone in the city—young + girls of the people, of course; but beautiful young ladies, no! + </p> + <p> + Harmony gave her an extra krone or two out of sheer gratitude, but she + could not keep her. And at noon, having packed her trunk, she went down to + interview the Portier and his wife, who were agents under the owner for + the old house. + </p> + <p> + The Portier, entirely subdued, was sweeping out the hallway. He looked + past the girl, not at her, and observed impassively that the lease was up + and it was her privilege to go. In the daylight she was not so like the + angel, and after all she could only play the violin. The angel had a + voice, such a voice! And besides, there was an eye at the crack of the + door. + </p> + <p> + The bit of cheer of the night before was gone; it was with a heavy heart + that Harmony started on her quest for cheaper quarters. + </p> + <p> + Winter, which had threatened for a month, had come at last. The + cobblestones glittered with ice and the small puddles in the gutters were + frozen. Across the street a spotted deer, shot in the mountains the day + before and hanging from a hook before a wild-game shop, was frozen quite + stiff. It was a pretty creature. The girl turned her eyes away. A young + man, buying cheese and tinned fish in the shop, watched after her. + </p> + <p> + “That's an American girl, isn't it?” he asked in American-German. + </p> + <p> + The shopkeeper was voluble. Also Rosa had bought much from him, and Rosa + talked. When the American left the shop he knew everything of Harmony that + Rosa knew except her name. Rosa called her “The Beautiful One.” Also he + was short one krone four beliers in his change, which is readily done when + a customer is plainly thinking of a “beautiful one.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony searched all day for the little room with board and a stove and no + objection to practicing. There were plenty—but the rates! The willow + plume looked prosperous, and she had a way of making the plainest garments + appear costly. Landladies looked at the plume and the suit and heard the + soft swish of silk beneath, which marks only self-respect in the American + woman but is extravagance in Europe, and added to their regular terms + until poor Harmony's heart almost stood still. And then at last toward + evening she happened on a gloomy little pension near the corner of the + Alserstrasse, and it being dark and the plume not showing, and the + landlady missing the rustle owing to cotton in her ears for earache, + Harmony found terms that she could meet for a time. + </p> + <p> + A mean little room enough, but with a stove. The bed sagged in the center, + and the toilet table had a mirror that made one eye appear higher than the + other and twisted one's nose. But there was an odor of stewing cabbage in + the air. Also, alas, there was the odor of many previous stewed cabbages, + and of dusty carpets and stale tobacco. Harmony had had no lunch; she + turned rather faint. + </p> + <p> + She arranged to come at once, and got out into the comparative purity of + the staircase atmosphere and felt her way down. She reeled once or twice. + At the bottom of the dark stairs she stood for a moment with her eyes + closed, to the dismay of a young man who had just come in with a cheese + and some tinned fish under his arm. + </p> + <p> + He put down his packages on the stone floor and caught her arm. + </p> + <p> + “Not ill, are you?” he asked in English, and then remembering. “Bist du + krank?” He colored violently at that, recalling too late the familiarity + of the “du.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Only tired,” she said in English. “And the odor of cabbage—“. + </p> + <p> + Her color had come back and she freed herself from his supporting hand. He + whistled softly. He had recognized her. + </p> + <p> + “Cabbage, of course!” he said. “The pension upstairs is full of it. I live + there, and I've eaten so much of it I could be served up with pork.” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to live there. Is it as bad as that?” + </p> + <p> + He waved a hand toward the parcels on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “So bad,” he observed, “that I keep body and soul together by buying + strong and odorous food at the delicatessens—odorous, because only + rugged flavors rise above the atmosphere up there. Cheese is the only + thing that really knocks out the cabbage, and once or twice even cheese + has retired defeated.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't like cheese.” In sheer relief from the loneliness of the day + her spirits were rising. + </p> + <p> + “Then coffee! But not there. Coffee at the coffee-house on the corner. I + say—” He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you—don't you think a cup of coffee would set you up a bit?” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds attractive,”—uncertainly. + </p> + <p> + “Coffee with whipped cream and some little cakes?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony hesitated. In the gloom of the hall she could hardly see this + brisk young American—young, she knew by his voice, tall by his + silhouette, strong by the way he had caught her. She could not see his + face, but she liked his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean—with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm a doctor. I am going to fill my own prescription.” + </p> + <p> + That sounded reassuring. Doctors were not as other men; they were + legitimate friends in need. + </p> + <p> + “I am sure it is not proper, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Proper! Of course it is. I shall send you a bill for professional + services. Besides, won't we be formally introduced to-night by the + landlady? Come now—to the coffee-house and the Paris edition of the + 'Herald'!” But the next moment he paused and ran his hand over his chin. + “I'm pretty disreputable,” he explained. “I have been in a clinic all day, + and, hang it all, I'm not shaved.” + </p> + <p> + “What difference does that make?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear young lady,” he explained gravely, picking up the cheese and the + tinned fish, “it makes a difference in me that I wish you to realize + before you see me in a strong light.” + </p> + <p> + He rapped at the Portier's door, with the intention of leaving his parcels + there, but receiving no reply tucked them under his arm. A moment later + Harmony was in the open air, rather dazed, a bit excited, and lovely with + the color the adventure brought into her face. Her companion walked beside + her, tall, slightly stooped. She essayed a fugitive little side-glance up + at him, and meeting his eyes hastily averted hers. + </p> + <p> + They passed a policeman, and suddenly there flashed into the girl's mind + little Scatchett's letter. + </p> + <p> + “Do be careful, Harry. If any one you do not know speaks to you, call a + policeman.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + The coffee-house was warm and bright. Round its small tables were gathered + miscellaneous groups, here and there a woman, but mostly men—uniformed + officers, who made of the neighborhood coffee-house a sort of club, where + under their breath they criticized the Government and retailed small + regimental gossip; professors from the university, still wearing under the + beards of middle life the fine horizontal scars of student days; elderly + doctors from the general hospital across the street; even a Hofrath or + two, drinking beer and reading the “Fliegende Blaetter” and + “Simplicissimus”; and in an alcove round a billiard table a group of noisy + Korps students. Over all a permeating odor of coffee, strong black coffee, + made with a fig or two to give it color. It rose even above the blue + tobacco haze and dominated the atmosphere with its spicy and stimulating + richness. A bustle of waiters, a hum of conversation, the rattle of + newspapers and the click of billiard balls—this was the + coffee-house. + </p> + <p> + Harmony had never been inside one before. The little music colony had been + a tight-closed corporation, retaining its American integrity, in spite of + the salon of Maria Theresa and three expensive lessons a week in German. + Harmony knew the art galleries and the churches, which were free, and the + opera, thanks to no butter at supper. But of that backbone of Austrian + life, the coffee-house, she was profoundly ignorant. + </p> + <p> + Her companion found her a seat in a corner near a heater and disappeared + for an instant on the search for the Paris edition of the “Herald.” The + girl followed him with her eyes. Seen under the bright electric lights, he + was not handsome, hardly good-looking. His mouth was wide, his nose + irregular, his hair a nondescript brown,—but the mouth had humor, + the nose character, and, thank Heaven, there was plenty of hair. Not that + Harmony saw all this at once. As he tacked to and fro round the tables, + with a nod here and a word there, she got a sort of ensemble effect—a + tall man, possibly thirty, broadshouldered, somewhat stooped, as tall men + are apt to be. And shabby, undeniably shabby! + </p> + <p> + The shabbiness was a shock. A much-braided officer, trim from the points + of his mustache to the points of his shoes, rose to speak to him. The + shabbiness was accentuated by the contrast. Possibly the revelation was an + easement to the girl's nervousness. This smiling and unpressed individual, + blithely waving aloft the Paris edition of the “Herald” and equally + blithely ignoring the maledictions of the student from whom he had taken + it—even Scatchy could not have called him a vulture or threatened + him with the police. + </p> + <p> + He placed the paper before her and sat down at her side, not to interfere + with her outlook over the room. + </p> + <p> + “Warmer?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Coffee is coming. And cinnamon cakes with plenty of sugar. They know me + here and they know where I live. They save the sugariest cakes for me. + Don't let me bother you; go on and read. See which of the smart set is + getting a divorce—or is it always the same one? And who's President + back home.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather look round. It's curious, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Curious? It's heavenly! It's the one thing I am going to take back to + America with me—one coffee-house, one dozen military men for local + color, one dozen students ditto, and one proprietor's wife to sit in the + cage and shortchange the unsuspecting. I'll grow wealthy.” + </p> + <p> + “But what about the medical practice?” + </p> + <p> + He leaned over toward her; his dark-gray eyes fulfilled the humorous + promise of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it will work out perfectly,” he said whimsically. “The great + American public will eat cinnamon cakes and drink coffee until the feeble + American nervous system will be shattered. I shall have an office across + the street!” + </p> + <p> + After that, having seen how tired she looked, he forbade conversation + until she had had her coffee. She ate the cakes, too, and he watched her + with comfortable satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Nod your head but don't speak,” he said. “Remember, I am prescribing, and + there's to be no conversation until the coffee is down. Shall I or shall I + not open the cheese?” + </p> + <p> + But Harmony did not wish the cheese, and so signified. Something + inherently delicate in the unknown kept him from more than an occasional + swift glance at her. He read aloud, as she ate, bits of news from the + paper, pausing to sip his own coffee and to cast an eye over the crowded + room. Here and there an officer, gazing with too open admiration on + Harmony's lovely face, found himself fixed by a pair of steel-gray eyes + that were anything but humorous at that instant, and thought best to shift + his gaze. + </p> + <p> + The coffee finished, the girl began to gather up her wraps. But the + unknown protested. + </p> + <p> + “The function of a coffee-house,” he explained gravely, “is twofold. + Coffee is only the first half. The second half is conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “I converse very badly.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I. Suppose we talk about ourselves. We are sure to do that well. + Shall I commence?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony was in no mood to protest. Having swallowed coffee, why choke over + conversation? Besides, she was very comfortable. It was warm there, with + the heater at her back; better than the little room with the sagging bed + and the doors covered with wall paper. Her feet had stopped aching, too, + She could have sat there for hours. And—why evade it?—she was + interested. This whimsical and respectful young man with his absurd talk + and his shabby clothes had roused her curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Please,” she assented. + </p> + <p> + “Then, first of all, my name. I'm getting that over early, because it + isn't much, as names go. Peter Byrne it is. Don't shudder.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I'm not shuddering.” + </p> + <p> + “I have another name, put in by my Irish father to conciliate a German + uncle of my mother's. Augustus! It's rather a mess. What shall I put on my + professional brassplate? If I put P. Augustus Byrne nobody's fooled. They + know my wretched first name is Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Or Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “I rather like Patrick—if I thought it might pass as Patrick! + Patrick has possibilities. The diminutive is Pat, and that's not bad. But + Peter!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” Harmony confessed half shyly, “I like Peter as a name.” + </p> + <p> + “Peter it shall be, then. I go down to posterity and fame as Peter Byrne. + The rest doesn't amount to much, but I want you to know it, since you have + been good enough to accept me on faith. I'm here alone, from a little town + in eastern Ohio; worked my way through a coeducational college in the West + and escaped unmarried; did two years in a drygoods store until, by saving + and working in my vacations, I got through medical college and tried + general practice. Didn't like it—always wanted to do surgery. A + little legacy from the German uncle, trying to atone for the 'Augustus,' + gave me enough money to come here. I've got a chance with the Days—surgeons, + you know—when I go back, if I can hang on long enough. That's all. + Here's a traveler's check with my name on it, to vouch for the truth of + this thrilling narrative. Gaze on it with awe; there are only a few of + them left!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony was as delicately strung, as vibratingly responsive as the strings + of her own violin, and under the even lightness of his tone she felt many + things that met a response in her—loneliness and struggle, and the + ever-present anxiety about money, grim determination, hope and fear, and + even occasional despair. He was still young, but there were lines in his + face and a hint of gray in his hair. Even had he been less frank, she + would have known soon enough—the dingy little pension, the shabby + clothes— + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for telling me,” she said simply. “I think I understand very + well because—it's music with me: violin. And my friends have gone, + so I am alone, too.” + </p> + <p> + He leaned his elbows on the table and looked out over the crowd without + seeing it. + </p> + <p> + “It's curious, isn't it?” he said. “Here we are, you and I, meeting in the + center of Europe, both lonely as the mischief, both working our heads off + for an idea that may never pan out! Why aren't you at home to-night, + eating a civilized beefsteak and running upstairs to get ready for a nice + young man to bring you a box of chocolates? Why am I not measuring out + calico in Shipley & West's? Instead, we are going to Frau Schwarz', to + listen to cold ham and scorched compote eaten in six different languages.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony made no immediate reply. He seemed to expect none. She was drawing + on her gloves, her eyes, like his, roving over the crowd. + </p> + <p> + Far back among the tables a young man rose and yawned. Then, seeing Byrne, + he waved a greeting to him. Byrne's eyes, from being introspective, became + watchful. + </p> + <p> + The young man was handsome in a florid, red-checked way, with black hair + and blue eyes. Unlike Byrne, he was foppishly neat. He was not alone. A + slim little Austrian girl, exceedingly chic, rose when he did and threw + away the end of a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Why do we go so soon?” she demanded fretfully in German. “It is early + still.” + </p> + <p> + He replied in English. It was a curious way they had, and eminently + satisfactory, each understanding better than he spoke the other's + language. + </p> + <p> + “Because, my beloved,” he said lightly, “you are smoking a great many + poisonous and highly expensive cigarettes. Also I wish to speak to Peter.” + </p> + <p> + The girl followed his eyes and stiffened jealously. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that with Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “We are going over to find out, little one. Old Peter with a woman at + last!” + </p> + <p> + The little Austrian walked delicately, swaying her slim body with a slow + and sensuous grace. She touched an officer as she passed him, and paused + to apologize, to the officer's delight and her escort's irritation. And + Peter Byrne watched and waited, a line of annoyance between his brows. The + girl was ahead; that complicated things. + </p> + <p> + When she was within a dozen feet of the table he rose hastily, with a word + of apology, and met the couple. It was adroitly done. He had taken the + little Austrian's arm and led her by the table while he was still greeting + her. He held her in conversation in his absurd German until they had + reached the swinging doors, while her companion followed helplessly. And + he bowed her out, protesting his undying admiration for her eyes, while + the florid youth alternately raged behind him and stared back at Harmony, + interested and unconscious behind her table. + </p> + <p> + The little Austrian was on the pavement when Byrne turned, unsmiling, to + the other man. + </p> + <p> + “That won't do, you know, Stewart,” he said, grave but not unfriendly. + </p> + <p> + “The Kid wouldn't bite her.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll not argue about it.” + </p> + <p> + After a second's awkward pause Stewart smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” he agreed cheerfully. “That is up to you, of course. I + didn't know. We're looking for you to-night.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden repulsion for the evening's engagement rose in Byrne, but the + situation following his ungraciousness was delicate. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be round,” he said. “I have a lecture and I may be late, but I'll + come.” + </p> + <p> + The “Kid” was not stupid. She moved off into the night, chin in air, + angrily flushed. + </p> + <p> + “You saw!” she choked, when Stewart had overtaken her and slipped a hand + through her arm. “He protects her from me! It is because of you. Before I + knew you—” + </p> + <p> + “Before you knew me, little one,” he said cheerfully, “you were exactly + what you are now.” + </p> + <p> + She paused on the curb and raised her voice. + </p> + <p> + “So! And what is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful as the stars, only—not so remote.” + </p> + <p> + In their curious bi-lingual talk there was little room for subtlety. The + “beautiful” calmed her, but the second part of the sentence roused her + suspicion. + </p> + <p> + “Remote? What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of Worthington.” + </p> + <p> + The name was a signal for war. Stewart repented, but too late. + </p> + <p> + In the cold evening air, to the amusement of a passing detail of soldiers + trundling a breadwagon by a rope, Stewart stood on the pavement and dodged + verbal brickbats of Viennese idioms and German epithets. He drew his chin + into the up-turned collar of his overcoat and waited, an absurdly patient + figure, until the hail of consonants had subsided into a rain of tears. + Then he took the girl's elbow again and led her, childishly weeping, into + a narrow side street beyond the prying ears and eyes of the Alserstrasse. + </p> + <p> + Byrne went back to Harmony. The incident of Stewart and the girl was + closed and he dismissed it instantly. That situation was not his, or of + his making. But here in the coffee-house, lovely, alluring, rather puzzled + at this moment, was also a situation. For there was a situation. He had + suspected it that morning, listening to the delicatessen-seller's + narrative of Rosa's account of the disrupted colony across in the old + lodge; he had been certain of it that evening, finding Harmony in the dark + entrance to his own rather sordid pension. Now, in the bright light of the + coffee-house, surmising her poverty, seeing her beauty, the emotional + coming and going of her color, her frank loneliness, and God save the + mark!—her trust in him, he accepted the situation and adopted it: + his responsibility, if you please. + </p> + <p> + He straightened under it. He knew the old city fairly well—enough to + love it and to loathe it in one breath. He had seen its tragedies and + passed them by, or had, in his haphazard way, thrown a greeting to them, + or even a glass of native wine. And he knew the musical temperament; the + all or nothing of its insistent demands; its heights that are higher than + others, its wretchednesses that are hell. Once in the Hofstadt Theater, + where he had bought standing room, he had seen a girl he had known in + Berlin, where he was taking clinics and where she was cooking her own + meals. She had been studying singing. In the Hofstadt Theater she had worn + a sable coat and had avoided his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the old coffee-house had seen nothing more absurd, in its years of + coffee and billiards and Munchener beer, than Peter's new resolution that + night: this poverty adopting poverty, this youth adopting youth, with the + altruistic purpose of saving it from itself. + </p> + <p> + And this, mind you, before Peter Byrne had heard Harmony's story or knew + her name, Rosa having called her “The Beautiful One” in her narrative, and + the delicatessen-seller being literal in his repetition. + </p> + <p> + Back to “The Beautiful One” went Peter Byrne, and, true to his new part of + protector and guardian, squared his shoulders and tried to look much older + than he really was, and responsible. The result was a grimness that + alarmed Harmony back to the forgotten proprieties. + </p> + <p> + “I think I must go,” she said hurriedly, after a glance at his + determinedly altruistic profile. “I must finish packing my things. The + Portier has promised—” + </p> + <p> + “Go! Why, you haven't even told me your name!” + </p> + <p> + “Frau Schwarz will present you to-night,” primly and rising. + </p> + <p> + Peter Byrne rose, too. + </p> + <p> + “I am going back with you. You should not go through that lonely yard + alone after dark.” + </p> + <p> + “Yard! How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + Byrne was picking up the cheese, which he had thoughtlessly set on the + heater, and which proved to be in an alarming state of dissolution. It + took a moment to rewrap, and incidentally furnished an inspiration. He + indicated it airily. + </p> + <p> + “Saw you this morning coming out—delicatessen shop across the + street,” he said glibly. And then, in an outburst of honesty which the + girl's eyes seemed somehow to compel: “That's true, but it's not all the + truth. I was on the bus last night, and when you got off alone I—I + saw you were an American, and that's not a good neighborhood. I took the + liberty of following you to your gate!” + </p> + <p> + He need not have been alarmed. Harmony was only grateful, and said so. And + in her gratitude she made no objection to his suggestion that he see her + safely to the old lodge and help her carry her hand-luggage and her violin + to the pension. He paid the trifling score, and followed by many eyes in + the room they went out into the crisp night together. + </p> + <p> + At the lodge the doors stood wide, and a vigorous sound of scrubbing + showed that the Portier's wife was preparing for the inspection of + possible new tenants. She was cleaning down the stairs by the light of a + candle, and the steam of the hot water on the cold marble invested her + like an aura. She stood aside to let them pass, and then went cumbrously + down the stairs to where, a fork in one hand and a pipe in the other, the + Portier was frying chops for the evening meal. + </p> + <p> + “What have I said?” she demanded from the doorway. “Your angel is here.” + </p> + <p> + “So!” + </p> + <p> + “She with whom you sing, old cracked voice! Whose money you refuse, + because she reminds you of your opera singer! She is again here, and with + a man!” + </p> + <p> + “It is the way of the young and beautiful—there is always a man,” + said the Portier, turning a chop. + </p> + <p> + His wife wiped her steaming hands on her apron and turned away, + exasperated. + </p> + <p> + “It is the same man whom I last night saw at the gate,” she threw back + over her shoulder. “I knew it from the first; but you, great booby, can + see nothing but red lips. Bah!” + </p> + <p> + Upstairs in the salon of Maria Theresa, lighted by one candle and freezing + cold, in a stiff chair under the great chandelier Peter Byrne sat and + waited and blew on his fingers. Down below, in the Street of Seven Stars, + the arc lights swung in the wind. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + The supper that evening was even unusually bad. Frau Schwarz, much crimped + and clad in frayed black satin, presided at the head of the long table. + There were few, almost no Americans, the Americans flocking to good food + at reckless prices in more fashionable pensions; to the Frau + Gallitzenstein's, for instance, in the Kochgasse, where there was to be + had real beefsteak, where turkeys were served at Thanksgiving and + Christmas, and where, were one so minded, one might revel in whipped + cream. + </p> + <p> + The Pension Schwarz, however, was not without adornment. In the center of + the table was a large bunch of red cotton roses with wire stems and green + paper leaves, and over the side-table, with its luxury of compote in tall + glass dishes and its wealth of small hard cakes, there hung a framed motto + which said, “Nicht Rauchen,” “No Smoking,”—and which looked + suspiciously as if it had once adorned a compartment of a railroad train. + </p> + <p> + Peter Byrne was early in the dining-room. He had made, for him, a careful + toilet, which consisted of a shave and clean linen. But he had gone + further: He had discovered, for the first time in the three months of its + defection, a button missing from his coat, and had set about to replace + it. He had cut a button from another coat, by the easy method of + amputating it with a surgical bistoury, and had sewed it in its new + position with a curved surgical needle and a few inches of sterilized + catgut. The operation was slow and painful, and accomplished only with the + aid of two cigarettes and an artery clip. When it was over he tied the + ends in a surgeon's knot underneath and stood back to consider the result. + It seemed neat enough, but conspicuous. After a moment or two of troubled + thought he blacked the white catgut with a dot of ink and went on his way + rejoicing. + </p> + <p> + Peter Byrne was entirely untroubled as to the wisdom of the course he had + laid out for himself. He followed no consecutive line of thought as he + dressed. When he was not smoking he was whistling, and when he was doing + neither, and the needle proved refractory in his cold fingers, he was + swearing to himself. For there was no fire in the room. The materials for + a fire were there, and a white tile stove, as cozy as an obelisk in a + cemetery, stood in the corner. But fires are expensive, and hardly + necessary when one sleeps with all one's windows open—one window, to + be exact, the room being very small—and spends most of the day in a + warm and comfortable shambles called a hospital. + </p> + <p> + To tell the truth he was not thinking of Harmony at all, except + subconsciously, as instance the button. He was going over, step by step, + the technic of an operation he had seen that afternoon, weighing, + considering, even criticizing. His conclusion, reached as he brushed back + his hair and put away his sewing implements, was somewhat to the effect + that he could have done a better piece of work with his eyes shut and his + hands tied behind his back; and that if it were not for the wealth of + material to work on he'd pack up and go home. Which brought him back to + Harmony and his new responsibility. He took off the necktie he had + absently put on and hunted out a better one. + </p> + <p> + He was late at supper—an offense that brought a scowl from the head + of the table, a scowl that he met with a cheerful smile. Harmony was + already in her place. Seated between a little Bulgarian and a Jewish + student from Galicia, she was almost immediately struggling in a sea of + language, into which she struck out now and then tentatively, only to be + again submerged. Byrne had bowed to her conventionally, even coldly, aware + of the sharp eyes and tongues round the table, but Harmony did not + understand. She had expected moral support from his presence, and failing + that she sank back into the loneliness and depression of the day. Her + bright color faded; her eyes looked tragic and rather aloof. She ate + almost nothing, and left the table before the others had finished. + </p> + <p> + What curious little dramas of the table are played under unseeing eyes! + What small tragedies begin with the soup and end with dessert! What + heartaches with a salad! Small tragedies of averted eyes, looking away + from appealing ones; lips that tremble with wretchedness nibbling daintily + at a morsel; smiles that sear; foolish bits of talk that mean nothing + except to one, and to that one everything! Harmony, freezing at Peter's + formal bow and gazing obstinately ahead during the rest of the meal, or no + nearer Peter than the red-paper roses, and Peter, showering the little + Bulgarian next to her with detestable German in the hope of a glance. And + over all the odor of cabbage salad, and the “Nicht Rauchen” sign, and an + acrimonious discussion on eugenics between an American woman doctor named + Gates and a German matron who had had fifteen children, and who reduced + every general statement to a personal insult. + </p> + <p> + Peter followed Harmony as soon as he dared. Her door was closed, and she + was playing very softly, so as to disturb no one. Defiantly, too, had he + only known it, her small chin up and her color high again; playing the + “Humoresque,” of all things, in the hope, of course, that he would hear it + and guess from her choice the wild merriment of her mood. Peter rapped + once or twice, but obtained no answer, save that the “Humoresque” rose a + bit higher; and, Dr. Gates coming along the hall just then, he was forced + to light a cigarette to cover his pausing. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Gates, however, was not suspicious. She was a smallish woman of forty + or thereabout, with keen eyes behind glasses and a masculine disregard of + clothes, and she paused by Byrne to let him help her into her ulster. + </p> + <p> + “New girl, eh?” she said, with a birdlike nod toward the door. “Very gay, + isn't she, to have just finished a supper like that! Honestly, Peter, what + are we going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Growl and stay on, as we have for six months. There is better food, but + not for our terms.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Gates sighed, and picking a soft felt hat from the table put it on + with a single jerk down over her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, darn money, anyhow!” she said. “Come and walk to the corner with me. + I have a lecture.” + </p> + <p> + Peter promised to follow in a moment, and hurried back to his room. There, + on a page from one of his lecture notebooks, he wrote— + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill? Or have I done anything?” + </p> + <p> + “P. B.” + </p> + <p> + This with great care he was pushing under Harmony's door when the little + Bulgarian came along and stopped, smiling. He said nothing, nor did Peter, + who rose and dusted his knees. The little Bulgarian spoke no English and + little German. Between them was the wall of language. But higher than this + barrier was the understanding of their common sex. He held out his hand, + still smiling, and Peter, grinning sheepishly, took it. Then he followed + the woman doctor down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + To say that Peter Byrne was already in love with Harmony would be absurd. + She attracted him, as any beautiful and helpless girl attracts an + unattracted man. He was much more concerned, now that he feared he had + offended her, than he would have been without this fillip to his interest. + But even his concern did not prevent his taking copious and intelligent + notes at his lecture that night, or interfere with his enjoyment of the + Stein of beer with which, after it was over, he washed down its involved + German. + </p> + <p> + The engagement at Stewart's irked him somewhat. He did not approve of + Stewart exactly, not from any dislike of the man, but from a lack of + fineness in the man himself—an intangible thing that seems to be a + matter of that unfashionable essence, the soul, as against the clay; of + the thing contained, by an inverse metonymy, for the container. + </p> + <p> + Boyer, a nerve man from Texas, met him on the street, and they walked to + Stewart's apartment together. The frosty air and the rapid exercise + combined to drive away Byrne's irritation; that, and the recollection that + it was Saturday night and that to-morrow there would be no clinics, no + lectures, no operations; that the great shambles would be closed down and + that priests would read mass to convalescents in the chapels. He was + whistling as he walked along. + </p> + <p> + Boyer, a much older man, whose wife had come over with him, stopped under + a street light to consult his watch. + </p> + <p> + “Almost ten!” he said. “I hope you don't mind, Byrne; but I told Jennie I + was going to your pension. She detests Stewart.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right. She knows you're playing poker?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She doesn't object to poker. It's the other. You can't make a good + woman understand that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for that!” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of silence Byrne took up his whistling again. It was the + “Humoresque.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart's apartment was on the third floor. Admission at that hour was to + be gained only by ringing, and Boyer touched the bell. The lights were + still on, however, in the hallways, revealing not overclean stairs and, + for a wonder, an electric elevator. This, however, a card announced as out + of order. Boyer stopped and examined the card grimly. + </p> + <p> + “'Out of order'!” he observed. “Out of order since last spring, judging by + that card. Vorwarts!” + </p> + <p> + They climbed easily, deliberately. At home in God's country Boyer played + golf, as became the leading specialist of his county. Byrne, with a + driving-arm like the rod of a locomotive, had been obliged to forswear the + more expensive game for tennis, with a resulting muscular development that + his slight stoop belied. He was as hard as nails, without an ounce of fat, + and he climbed the long steep flights with an elasticity that left even + Boyer a step or so behind. + </p> + <p> + Stewart opened the door himself, long German pipe in hand, his coat + replaced by a worn smoking-jacket. The little apartment was thick with + smoke, and from a room on the right came the click of chips and the sound + of beer mugs on wood. + </p> + <p> + Marie, restored to good humor, came out to greet them, and both men bowed + ceremoniously over her hand, clicking their heels together and bowing from + the waist. Byrne sniffed. + </p> + <p> + “What do I smell, Marie?” he demanded. “Surely not sausages!” + </p> + <p> + Marie dimpled. It was an old joke, to be greeted as one greets an old + friend. It was always sausages. + </p> + <p> + “Sausages, of a truth—fat ones.' + </p> + <p> + “But surely not with mustard?” + </p> + <p> + “Ach, ja—englisch mustard.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart and Boyer had gone on ahead. Marie laid a detaining hand on + Byrne's arm. + </p> + <p> + “I was very angry with you to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “With me?” + </p> + <p> + Like the others who occasionally gathered in Stewart's unconventional + menage, Byrne had adopted Stewart's custom of addressing Marie in English, + while she replied in her own tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Ja. I wished but to see nearer the American Fraulein's hat, and you—She + is rich, so?” + </p> + <p> + “I really don't know. I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “And good?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Marie was small; she stood, her head back, her eyes narrowed, looking up + at Byrne. There was nothing evil in her face, it was not even hard. + Rather, there was a sort of weariness, as of age and experience. She had + put on a white dress, cut out at the neck, and above her collarbones were + small, cuplike hollows. She was very thin. + </p> + <p> + “I was sad to-night,” she said plaintively. “I wished to jump out the + window.” + </p> + <p> + Byrne was startled, but the girl was smiling at the recollection. + </p> + <p> + “And I made you feel like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not you—the other Fraulein. I was dirt to her. I—” She + stopped tragically, then sniffled. + </p> + <p> + “The sausages!” she cried, and gathering up her skirts ran toward the + kitchen. Byrne went on into the sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + Stewart was a single man spending two years in post-graduate work in + Germany and Austria, not so much because the Germans and Austrians could + teach what could not be taught at home, but because of the wealth of + clinical material. The great European hospitals, filled to overflowing, + offered unlimited choice of cases. The contempt for human life of + overpopulated cities, coupled with the extreme poverty and helplessness of + the masses, combined to form that tragic part of the world which dies that + others may live. + </p> + <p> + Stewart, like Byrne, was doing surgery, and the very lack of fineness + which Byrne felt in the man promised something in his work, a sort of + ruthlessness, a singleness of purpose, good or bad, an overwhelming + egotism that in his profession might only be a necessary self-reliance. + </p> + <p> + His singleness of purpose had, at the beginning of his residence in + Vienna, devoted itself to making him comfortable. With the narrow means at + his control he had the choice of two alternatives: To live, as Byrne was + living, in a third-class pension, stewing in summer, freezing in winter, + starving always; or the alternative he had chosen. + </p> + <p> + The Stewart apartment had only three rooms, but it possessed that luxury + of luxuries, a bath. It was not a bath in the usual sense of water on tap, + and shining nickel plate, but a bath for all that, where with + premeditation and forethought one might bathe. The room had once been a + fuel and store room, but now boasted a tin tub and a stove with a + reservoir on top, where water might be heated to the boiling point, at the + same time bringing up the atmosphere to a point where the tin tub sizzled + if one touched it. + </p> + <p> + Behind the bathroom a tiny kitchen with a brick stove; next, a bedroom; + the whole incredibly neat. Along one side of the wall a clothespress, + which the combined wardrobes of two did not fill. And beyond that again, + opening through an arch with a dingy chenille curtain, the sitting-room, + now in chaotic disorder. + </p> + <p> + Byrne went directly to the sitting-room. There were four men already + there: Stewart and Boyer, a pathology man named Wallace Hunter, doing + research work at the general hospital, and a young piano student from + Tennessee named MacLean. The cards had been already dealt, and Byrne stood + by waiting for the hand to be played. + </p> + <p> + The game was a small one, as befitted the means of the majority. It was a + regular Saturday night affair, as much a custom as the beer that sat in + Steins on the floor beside each man, or as Marie's boiled Wiener sausages. + </p> + <p> + The blue chips represented a Krone, the white ones five Hellers. MacLean, + who was hardly more than a boy, was winning, drawing in chips with quick + gestures of his long pianist's fingers. + </p> + <p> + Byrne sat down and picked up his cards. Stewart was staying out, and so, + after a glance, did he. The other three drew cards and fell to betting. + Stewart leaned back and filled his long pipe, and after a second's + hesitation Byrne turned to him. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know just what to say, Stewart,” he began in an undertone. “I'm + sorry. I didn't want to hurt Marie, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right.” Stewart drew at his pipe and bent forward to watch + the game with an air of ending the discussion. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. I did hurt her and I want to explain. Marie has been kind to + me, and I like her. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be an ass!” Stewart turned on him sharply. “Marie is a little fool, + that's all. I didn't know it was an American girl.” + </p> + <p> + Byrne played in bad luck. His mind was not on the cards. He stayed out of + the last hand, and with a cigarette wandered about the room. He glanced + into the tidy bedroom and beyond, to where Marie hovered over the stove. + </p> + <p> + She turned and saw him. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” she called. “Watch the supper for me while I go down for more + beer.” + </p> + <p> + “But no,” he replied, imitating her tone. “Watch the supper for me while I + go down for more beer.” + </p> + <p> + “I love thee,” she called merrily. “Tell the Herr Doktor I love thee. And + here is the pitcher.” + </p> + <p> + When he returned the supper was already laid in the little kitchen. The + cards were put away, and young MacLean and Wallace Hunter were replacing + the cover and the lamp on the card-table. Stewart was orating from a + pinnacle of proprietorship. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” he was saying, in reply to something gone before; “I used to + come here Saturday nights—used to come early and take a bath. + Worthington had rented it furnished for a song. Used to sit in a corner + and envy Worthington his bathtub, and that lamp there, and decent food, + and a bed that didn't suffer from necrosis in the center. Then when he was + called home I took it.” + </p> + <p> + “Girl and all, wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Girl and all. Old Worth said she was straight, and, by Jove, she is. He + came back last fall on his wedding trip—he married a wealthy girl + and came to see us. I was out, but Marie was here. There was the deuce to + pay.” + </p> + <p> + He lowered his voice. The men had gathered about him in a group. + </p> + <p> + “Jealous, eh?” from Hunter. + </p> + <p> + “Jealous? No! He tried to kiss her and she hit him—said he didn't + respect her!” + </p> + <p> + “It's a curious code of honor,” said Boyer thoughtfully. And indeed to + none but Stewart did it seem amusing. This little girl of the streets, + driven by God knows what necessity to make her own code and, having made + it, living up to it with every fiber of her. + </p> + <p> + “Bitte zum speisen!” called Marie gayly from her brick stove, and the men + trooped out to the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + The supper was spread on the table, with the pitcher of beer in the + center. There were Swiss cheese and cold ham and rolls, and above all + sausages and mustard. Peter drank a great deal of beer, as did the others, + and sang German songs with a frightful accent and much vigor and + sentiment, as also did the others. + </p> + <p> + Then he went back to the cold room in the Pension Schwarz, and told + himself he was a fool to live alone when one could live like a prince for + the same sum properly laid out. He dropped into the hollow center of his + bed, where his big figure fitted as comfortably as though it lay in a + washtub, and before his eyes there came a vision of Stewart's flat and the + slippers by the fire—which was eminently human. + </p> + <p> + However, a moment later he yawned, and said aloud, with considerable + vigor, that he'd be damned if he would—which was eminently Peter + Byrne. Almost immediately, with the bed coverings, augmented by his + overcoat, drawn snug to his chin, and the better necktie swinging from the + gasjet in the air from the opened window, Peter was asleep. For four hours + he had entirely forgotten Harmony. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + The peace of a gray Sunday morning hung like a cloud over the little + Pension Schwarz. In the kitchen the elderly maid, with a shawl over her + shoulders and stiffened fingers, made the fire, while in the dining-room + the little chambermaid cut butter and divided it sparingly among a dozen + breakfast trays—on each tray two hard rolls, a butter pat, a plate, + a cup. On two trays Olga, with a glance over her shoulder, placed two + butter pats. The mistress yet slept, but in the kitchen Katrina had a keen + eye for butter—and a hard heart. + </p> + <p> + Katrina came to the door. + </p> + <p> + “The hot water is ready,” she announced. “And the coffee also. Hast thou + been to mass?” + </p> + <p> + “Ja.” + </p> + <p> + “That is a lie.” This quite on general principle, it being one of the + cook's small tyrannies to exact religious observance from her underling, + and one of Olga's Sunday morning's indulgences to oversleep and avoid the + mass. Olga took the accusation meekly and without reply, being occupied at + that moment in standing between Katrina and the extra pats of butter. + </p> + <p> + “For the lie,” said Katrina calmly, “thou shalt have no butter this + morning. There, the Herr Doktor rings for water. Get it, wicked one!” + </p> + <p> + Katrina turned slowly in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “The new Fraulein is American?” + </p> + <p> + “Ja.” + </p> + <p> + Katrina shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall put more water to heat,” she said resignedly. “The Americans + use much water. God knows it cannot be healthy!” + </p> + <p> + Olga filled her pitcher from the great copper kettle and stood with it + poised in her thin young arms. + </p> + <p> + “The new Fraulein is very beautiful,” she continued aloud. “Thinkest thou + it is the hot water?” + </p> + <p> + “Is an egg more beautiful for being boiled?” demanded Katrina. “Go, and be + less foolish. See, it is not the Herr Doktor who rings, but the new + American.” + </p> + <p> + Olga carried her pitcher to Harmony's door, and being bidden, entered. The + room was frigid and Harmony, at the window in her nightgown, was closing + the outer casement. The inner still swung open. Olga, having put down her + pitcher, shivered. + </p> + <p> + “Surely the Fraulein has not slept with open windows?” + </p> + <p> + “Always with open windows.” Harmony having secured the inner casement, was + wrapping herself in the blue silk kimono with the faded butterflies. + Merely to look at it made Olga shiver afresh. She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “But the air of the night,” she said, “it is full of mists and illnesses! + Will you have breakfast now?” + </p> + <p> + “In ten minutes, after I have bathed.” + </p> + <p> + Olga having put a match to the stove went back to the kitchen, shaking her + head. + </p> + <p> + “They are strange, the Americans!” she said to latrine. “And if to be + lovely one must bathe daily, and sleep with open windows—” + </p> + <p> + Harmony had slept soundly after all. Her pique at Byrne had passed with + the reading of his note, and the sensation of his protection and nearness + had been almost physical. In the virginal little apartment in the lodge of + Maria Theresa the only masculine presence had been that of the Portier, + carrying up coals at ninety Hellers a bucket, or of the accompanist who + each alternate day had played for the Big Soprano to practice. And they + had felt no deprivation, except for those occasional times when Scatchy + developed a reckless wish to see the interior of a dancing-hall or one of + the little theaters that opened after the opera. + </p> + <p> + But, as calmly as though she had never argued alone with a cabman or + disputed the bill at the delicatessen shop, Harmony had thrown herself on + the protection of this shabby big American whom she had met but once, and, + having done so, slept like a baby. Not, of course, that she realized her + dependence. She had felt very old and experienced and exceedingly + courageous as she put out her light the night before and took a flying + leap into the bed. She was still old and experienced, if a trifle less + courageous, that Sunday morning. + </p> + <p> + Promptly in ten minutes Olga brought the breakfast, two rolls, two pats of + butter—shades of the sleeping mistress and Katrina the thrifty—and + a cup of coffee. On the tray was a bit of paper torn from a notebook:— + </p> + <p> + “Part of the prescription is an occasional walk in good company. Will you + walk with me this afternoon? I would come in person to ask you, but am + spending the morning in my bathrobe, while my one remaining American suit + is being pressed. + </p> + <p> + “P. B.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony got the ink and her pen from her trunk and wrote below:— + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind to me. Yes, indeed. + </p> + <p> + “H. W.” + </p> + <p> + When frequent slamming of doors and steps along the passageway told + Harmony that the pension was fully awake, she got out her violin. The idea + of work obsessed her. To-morrow there would be the hunt for something to + do to supplement her resources, this afternoon she had rashly promised to + walk. The morning, then, must be given up to work. But after all she did + little. + </p> + <p> + For an hour, perhaps, she practiced. The little Bulgarian paused outside + her door and listened, rapt, his eyes closed. Peter Byrne, listening while + he sorted lecture memoranda at his little table in bathrobe and slippers, + absently filed the little note with the others—where he came across + it months later—next to a lecture on McBurney's Point, and spent a + sad hour or so over it. Over all the sordid little pension, with its odors + of food and stale air, its spotted napery and dusty artificial flowers, + the music hovered, and made for the time all things lovely. + </p> + <p> + In her room across from Harmony's, Anna Gates was sewing, or preparing to + sew. Her hair in a knob, her sleeves rolled up, the room in violent + disorder, she was bending over the bed, cutting savagely at a roll of pink + flannel. Because she was working with curved surgeon's scissors, borrowed + from Peter, the cut edges were strangely scalloped. Her method as well as + her tools was unique. Clearly she was intent on a body garment, for now + and then she picked up the flannel and held it to her. Having thus, as one + may say, got the line of the thing, she proceeded to cut again, jaw tight + set, small veins on her forehead swelling, a small replica of Peter Byrne + sewing a button on his coat. + </p> + <p> + After a time it became clear to her that her method was wrong. She rolled + up the flannel viciously and flung it into a corner, and proceeded to her + Sunday morning occupation of putting away the garments she had worn during + the week, a vast and motley collection. + </p> + <p> + On the irritability of her mood Harmony's music had a late but certain + effect. She made a toilet, a trifle less casual than usual, seeing that + she put on her stays, and rather sheepishly picked up the bundle from the + corner. She hunted about for a thimble, being certain she had brought one + from home a year before, but failed to find it. And finally, bundle under + her arm and smiling, she knocked at Harmony's door. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind letting me sit with you?” she asked. “I'll not stir. I + want to sew, and my room is such a mess!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony threw the door wide. “You will make me very happy, if only my + practicing does not disturb you.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Gates came in and closed the door. + </p> + <p> + “I'll probably be the disturbing element,” she said. “I'm a noisy sewer.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony's immaculate room and radiant person put her in good humor + immediately. She borrowed a thimble—not because she cared whether + she had one or not, but because she knew a thimble was a part of the game—and + settled herself in a corner, her ragged pieces in her lap. For an hour she + plodded along and Harmony played. Then the girl put down her bow and + turned to the corner. The little doctor was jerking at a knot in her + thread. + </p> + <p> + “It's in the most damnable knot!” she said, and Harmony was suddenly aware + that she was crying, and heartily ashamed of it. + </p> + <p> + “Please don't pay any attention to me,” she implored. “I hate to sew. + That's the trouble. Or perhaps it's not all the trouble. I'm a fool about + music.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, if you hate to sew—” + </p> + <p> + “I hate a good many things, my dear, when you play like that. I hate being + over here in this place, and I hate fleas and German cooking and clinics, + and I hate being forty years old and as poor as a church-mouse and as ugly + as sin, and I hate never having had any children!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony was very uncomfortable and just a little shocked. But the next + moment Dr. Gates had wiped her eyes with a scrap of the flannel and was + smiling up through her glasses. + </p> + <p> + “The plain truth really is that I have indigestion. I dare say I'm really + weeping in anticipation over the Sunday dinner! The food's bad and I can't + afford to live anywhere else. I'd take a room and do my own cooking, but + what time have I?” She spread out the pieces of flannel on her knee. “Does + this look like anything to you?” + </p> + <p> + “A petticoat, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't intend it as a petticoat.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought, on account of the scallops—” + </p> + <p> + “Scallops!” Dr. Gates gazed at the painfully cut pink edges and from them + to Harmony. Then she laughed, peal after peal of joyous mirth. + </p> + <p> + “Scallops!” she gasped at last. “Oh, my dear, if you'd seen me cutting + 'em! And with Peter Byrne's scissors!” + </p> + <p> + Now here at last they were on common ground. Harmony, delicately flushed, + repeated the name, clung to it conversationally, using little adroitnesses + to bring the talk back to him. All roads of talk led to Peter—Peter's + future, Peter's poverty, Peter's refusing to have his hair cut, Peter's + encounter with a major of the guards, and the duel Peter almost fought. It + developed that Peter, as the challenged, had had the choice of weapons, + and had chosen fists, and that the major had been carried away. Dr. Gates + grew rather weary of Peter at last and fell back on the pink flannel. She + confided to Harmony that the various pieces, united, were to make a + dressing-gown for a little American boy at the hospital. “Although,” she + commented, “it looks more like a chair cover.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony offered to help her, and got out a sewing-box that was lined with + a piece of her mother's wedding dress. And as she straightened the crooked + edges she told the doctor about the wedding dress, and about the mother + who had called her Harmony because of the hope in her heart. And soon, by + dint of skillful listening, which is always better than questioning, the + faded little woman doctor knew all the story. + </p> + <p> + She was rather aghast. + </p> + <p> + “But suppose you cannot find anything to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I must,” simply. + </p> + <p> + “It's such a terrible city for a girl alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not really alone. I know you now.” + </p> + <p> + “An impoverished spinster! Much help I shall be!” + </p> + <p> + “And there is Peter Byrne.” + </p> + <p> + “Peter!” Dr. Gates sniffed. “Peter is poorer than I am, if there is any + comparison in destitution!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony stiffened a trifle. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do not mean money,” she said. “There are such things as + encouragement, and—and friendliness.” + </p> + <p> + “One cannot eat encouragement,” retorted Dr. Gates sagely. “And + friendliness between you and any man—bah! Even Peter is only human, + my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure he is very good.” + </p> + <p> + “So he is. He is very poor. But you are very attractive. There, I'm a + skeptic about men, but you can trust Peter. Only don't fall in love with + him. It will be years before he can marry. And don't let him fall in love + with you. He probably will.” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon Dr. Gates taking herself and her pink flannel off to prepare for + lunch, Harmony sent a formal note to Peter Byrne, regretting that a + headache kept her from taking the afternoon walk as she had promised. + Also, to avoid meeting him, she did without dinner, and spent the + afternoon crying herself into a headache that was real enough. + </p> + <p> + Anna Gates was no fool. While she made her few preparations for dinner she + repented bitterly what she had said to Harmony. It is difficult for the + sophistry of forty to remember and cherish the innocence of twenty. For + illusions it is apt to substitute facts, the material for the spiritual, + the body against the soul. Dr. Gates, from her school of general practice, + had come to view life along physiological lines. + </p> + <p> + With her customary frankness she approached Peter after the meal. + </p> + <p> + “I've been making mischief, Peter. I been talking too much, as usual.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not about me, Doctor. Out of my blameless life—” + </p> + <p> + “About you, as a representative member of your sex. I'm a fool.” + </p> + <p> + Peter looked serious. He had put on the newly pressed suit and his best + tie, and was looking distinguished and just now rather stern. + </p> + <p> + “To whom?” + </p> + <p> + “To the young Wells person. Frankly, Peter, I dare say at this moment she + thinks you are everything you shouldn't be, because I said you were only + human. Why it should be evil to be human, or human to be evil—” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot imagine,” said Peter slowly, “the reason for any conversation + about me.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I, when I look back. We seemed to talk about other things, but it + always ended with you. Perhaps you were our one subject in common. Then + she irritated me by her calm confidence. The world was good, everybody was + good. She would find a safe occupation and all would be well.” + </p> + <p> + “So you warned her against me,” said Peter grimly. + </p> + <p> + “I told her you were human and that she was attractive. Shall I make 'way + with myself?” + </p> + <p> + “Cui bono?” demanded Peter, smiling in spite of himself. “The mischief is + done.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Gates looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm in love with you myself, Peter!” she said gratefully. “Perhaps it is + the tie. Did you ever eat such a meal?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + A very pale and dispirited Harmony it was who bathed her eyes in cold + water that evening and obeyed little Olga's “Bitte sum speisen.” The + chairs round the dining-table were only half occupied—a free concert + had taken some, Sunday excursions others. The little Bulgarian, secretly + considered to be a political spy, was never about on this one evening of + the week. Rumor had it that on these evenings, secreted in an attic room + far off in the sixteenth district, he wrote and sent off reports of what + he had learned during the week—his gleanings from near-by tables in + coffee-houses or from the indiscreet hours after midnight in the cafe, + where the Austrian military was wont to gather and drink. + </p> + <p> + Into the empty chair beside Harmony Peter slid his long figure, and met a + tremulous bow and silence. From the head of the table Frau Schwarz was + talking volubly—as if, by mere sound, to distract attention from the + scantiness of the meal. Under cover of the Babel Peter spoke to the girl. + Having had his warning his tone was friendly, without a hint of the + intimacy of the day before. + </p> + <p> + “Better?” + </p> + <p> + “Not entirely. Somewhat.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you had sent Olga to me for some tablets. No one needs to suffer + from headache, when five grains or so of powder will help them.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid of headache tablets.” + </p> + <p> + “Not when your physician prescribes them, I hope!” + </p> + <p> + This was the right note. Harmony brightened a little. After all, what had + she to do with the man himself? He had constituted himself her physician. + That was all. + </p> + <p> + “The next time I shall send Olga.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” he responded heartily; and proceeded to make such a meal as he + might, talking little, and nursing, by a careful indifference, her + new-growing confidence. + </p> + <p> + It was when he had pushed his plate away and lighted a cigarette—according + to the custom of the pension, which accorded the “Nicht Rauchen” sign the + same attention that it did to the portrait of the deceased Herr Schwarz—that + he turned to her again. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry you are not able to walk. It promises a nice night.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was clever. Harmony, expecting an invitation to walk, had nerved + herself to a cool refusal. This took her off guard. + </p> + <p> + “Then you do not prescribe air?” + </p> + <p> + “That's up to how you feel. If you care to go out and don't mind my going + along as a sort of Old Dog Tray I haven't anything else to do.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Gates, eating stewed fruit across the table, gave Peter a swift glance + of admiration, which he caught and acknowledged. He was rather exultant + himself; certainly he had been adroit. + </p> + <p> + “I'd rather like a short walk. It will make me sleep,” said Harmony, who + had missed the by-play. “And Old Dog Tray would be a very nice companion, + I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + It is doubtful, however, if Anna Gates would have applauded Peter had she + followed the two in their rambling walk that night. Direction mattering + little and companionship everything, they wandered on, talking of + immaterial things—of the rough pavements, of the shop windows, of + the gray medieval buildings. They came to a full stop in front of the + Votivkirche, and discussed gravely the twin Gothic spires and the Benk + sculptures on the facade. And there in the open square, casting diplomacy + to the winds, Peter Byrne turned to Harmony and blurted out what was in + his heart. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” he said, “you don't care a rap about spires. I don't believe + you know anything about them. I don't. What did that idiot of a woman + doctor say to you to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “You do very well. And I'm going to set you right. She starts out with two + premises: I'm a man, and you're young and attractive. Then she draws some + sort of fool deduction. You know what I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why we need discuss it,” said poor Harmony. “Or how you know—” + </p> + <p> + “I know because she told me. She knew she had been a fool, and she came to + me. I don't know whether it makes any difference to you or not, but—we'd + started out so well, and then to have it spoiled! My dear girl, you are + beautiful and I know it. That's all the more reason why, if you'll stand + for it, you need some one to look after you—I'll not say like a + brother, because all the ones I ever knew were darned poor brothers to + their sisters, but some one who will keep an eye on you and who isn't + going to fall in love with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't think you were falling in love with me; nor did I wish you to.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. Besides, I—” Here Peter Byrne had another + inspiration, not so good as the first—“Besides, there is somebody at + home, you understand? That makes it all right, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “A girl at home?” + </p> + <p> + “A girl,” said Peter, lying manfully. + </p> + <p> + “How very nice!” said Harmony, and put out her hand. Peter, feeling all + sorts of a cheat, took it, and got his reward in a complete restoral of + their former comradely relations. From abstractions of church towers and + street paving they went, with the directness of the young, to themselves. + Thereafter, during that memorable walk, they talked blissful + personalities, Harmony's future, Peter's career, money—or its lack—their + ambitions, their hopes, even—and here was intimacy, indeed!—their + disappointments, their failures of courage, their occasional loss of faith + in themselves. + </p> + <p> + The first real snow of the year was falling as they turned back toward the + Pension Schwarz, a damp snow that stuck fast and melted with a chilly cold + that had in it nothing but depression. The upper spires of the Votivkirche + were hidden in a gray mist; the trees in the park took on, against the + gloom of the city hall, a snowy luminosity. Save for an occasional + pedestrian, making his way home under an umbrella, the streets were + deserted. Byrne and Harmony had no umbrella, but the girl rejected his + offer of a taxicab. + </p> + <p> + “We should be home too quickly,” she observed naively. “And we have so + much to say about me. Now I thought that perhaps by giving English lessons + in the afternoon and working all morning at my music—” + </p> + <p> + And so on and on, square after square, with Peter listening gravely, his + head bent. And square after square it was borne in on him what a + precarious future stretched before this girl beside him, how very slender + her resources, how more than dubious the outcome. + </p> + <p> + Poverty, which had only stimulated Peter Byrne in the past, ate deep into + his soul that night. + </p> + <p> + Epochmaking as the walk had been, seeing that it had reestablished a + friendship and made a working basis for future comradely relations, they + were back at the corner of the Alserstrasse before ten. As they turned in + at the little street, a man, lurching somewhat, almost collided with + Harmony. He was a short, heavy-set person with a carefully curled + mustache, and he was singing, not loudly, but with all his maudlin heart + in his voice, the barcarolle from the “Tales” of Hoffmann. He saw Harmony, + and still singing planted himself in her path. When Byrne would have + pushed him aside Harmony caught his arm. + </p> + <p> + “It is only the Portier from the lodge,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The Portier, having come to rest on a throaty and rather wavering note, + stood before Harmony, bowing. + </p> + <p> + “The Fraulein has gone and I am very sad,” he said thickly. “There is no + more music, and Rosa has run away with a soldier from Salzburg who has + only one lung.” + </p> + <p> + “But think!” Harmony said in German. “No more practicing in the early + dawn, no young ladies bringing mud into your newscrubbed hall! It is + better, is it not? All day you may rest and smoke!” + </p> + <p> + Byrne led Harmony past the drunken Portier, who turned with caution and + bowed after them. + </p> + <p> + “Gute Nacht,” he called. “Kuss die Hand, Fraulein. Four rooms and the + salon and a bath of the finest.” + </p> + <p> + As they went up the Hirschengasse they could hear him pursuing his + unsteady way down the street and singing lustily. At the door of the + Pension Schwarz Harmony paused. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind if I ask one question?” + </p> + <p> + “You honor me, madam.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—what is the name of the girl back home?” + </p> + <p> + Peter Byrne was suddenly conscious of a complete void as to feminine + names. He offered, in a sort of panic, the first one he recalled:— + </p> + <p> + “Emma.” + </p> + <p> + “Emma! What a nice, old-fashioned name!” But there was a touch of + disappointment in her voice. + </p> + <p> + Harmony had a lesson the next day. She was a favorite pupil with the + master. Out of so much musical chaff he winnowed only now and then a grain + of real ability. And Harmony had that. Scatchy and the Big Soprano had + been right—she had the real thing. + </p> + <p> + The short half-hour lesson had a way with Harmony of lengthening itself to + an hour or more, much to the disgust of the lady secretary in the + anteroom. On that Monday Harmony had pleased the old man to one of his + rare enthusiasms. + </p> + <p> + “Six months,” he said, “and you will go back to your America and show them + how over here we teach violin. I will a letter—letters—give + you, and you shall put on the programme, of your concerts that you are my + pupil, is it not so?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony was drawing on her worn gloves; her hands trembled a little with + the praise and excitement. + </p> + <p> + “If I can stay so long,” she answered unsteadily. + </p> + <p> + “You must stay. Have I so long labored, and now before it is finished you + talk of going! Gott im Himmel!” + </p> + <p> + “It is a matter of money. My father is dead. And unless I find something + to do I shall have to go back.” + </p> + <p> + The master had heard many such statements. They never ceased to rouse his + ire against a world that had money for everything but music. He spent five + minutes in indignant protest, then:— + </p> + <p> + “But you are clever and young, child. You will find a way to stay. Perhaps + I can now and then find a concert for you.” It was a lure he had thrown + out before, a hook without a bait. It needed no bait, being always eagerly + swallowed. “And no more talk of going away. I refuse to allow. You shall + not go.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony paid the lady secretary on her way out. The master was interested. + He liked Harmony and he believed in her. But fifty Kronen is fifty Kronen, + and South American beef is high of price. He followed Harmony into the + outer room and bowed her out of his studio. + </p> + <p> + “The Fraulein has paid?” he demanded, turning sharply to the lady + secretary. + </p> + <p> + “Always.” + </p> + <p> + “After the lesson?” + </p> + <p> + “Ja, Herr Professor.” + </p> + <p> + “It is better,” said the master, “that she pay hereafter before the + lesson.” + </p> + <p> + “Ja, Herr Professor.” + </p> + <p> + Whereupon the lady secretary put a red-ink cross before Harmony's name. + There were many such crosses on the ledger. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + For three days Byrne hardly saw Harmony. He was off early in the morning, + hurried back to the midday meal and was gone again the moment it was over. + He had lectures in the evenings, too, and although he lingered for an hour + or so after supper it was to find Harmony taken possession of by the + little Bulgarian, seized with a sudden thirst for things American. + </p> + <p> + On the evening of the second day he had left Harmony, enmeshed and + helpless in a tangle of language, trying to explain to the little + Bulgarian the reason American women wished to vote. Byrne flung down the + stairs and out into the street, almost colliding with Stewart. + </p> + <p> + They walked on together, Stewart with the comfortably rolling gait of the + man who has just dined well, Byrne with his heavy, rather solid tread. The + two men were not congenial, and the frequent intervals without speech + between them were rather for lack of understanding than for that + completeness of it which often fathers long silences. Byrne was the first + to speak after their greeting. + </p> + <p> + “Marie all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Fine. Said if I saw you to ask you to supper some night this week.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. Does it matter which night?” + </p> + <p> + “Any but Thursday. We're hearing 'La Boheme.'” + </p> + <p> + “Say Friday, then.” + </p> + <p> + Byrne's tone lacked enthusiasm, but Stewart in his after-dinner mood + failed to notice it. + </p> + <p> + “Have you thought any more about our conversation of the other night?” + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” + </p> + <p> + Stewart poked him playfully in the ribs. + </p> + <p> + “Wake up, Byrne!” he said. “You remember well enough. Neither the Days nor + any one else is going to have the benefit of your assistance if you go on + living the way you have been. I was at Schwarz's. It is the double drain + there that tells on one—eating little and being eaten much. Those + old walls are full of vermin. Why don't you take our apartment?” + </p> + <p> + “Yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, for a couple of months. I'm through with Schleich and Breidau can't + take me for two months. It's Marie's off season and we're going to + Semmering for the winter sports. We're ahead enough to take a holiday. And + if you want the flat for the same amount you are spending now, or less, + you can have it, and—a home, old man.” + </p> + <p> + Byrne was irritated, the more so that he realized that the offer tempted + him. To his resentment was added a contempt of himself. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” he said. “I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right.” Stewart was rather offended. “I can't do more than give + you a chance.” + </p> + <p> + They separated shortly after and Byrne went on alone. The snow of Sunday + had turned to a fine rain which had lasted all of Monday and Tuesday. The + sidewalks were slimy; wagons slid in the ooze of the streets; and the + smoke from the little stoves in the street-cars followed them in + depressing horizontal clouds. Cabmen sat and smoked in the interior of + musty cabs. The women hod-carriers on a new building steamed like horses + as they worked. + </p> + <p> + Byrne walked along, his head thrust down into his up-turned collar; + moisture gathered on his face like dew, condensed rather than + precipitated. And as he walked there came before him a vision of the + little flat on the Hochgasse, with the lamp on the table, and the general + air of warmth and cheer, and a figure presiding over the brick stove in + the kitchen. Byrne shook himself like a great dog and turned in at the + gate of the hospital. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself. + </p> + <p> + That week was full of disappointments for Harmony. Wherever she turned she + faced a wall of indifference or, what was worse, an interest that + frightened her. Like a bird in a cage she beat helplessly against barriers + of language, of strange customs, of stolidity that were not far from + absolute cruelty. + </p> + <p> + She held to her determination, however, at first with hope, then, as the + pension in advance and the lessons at fifty Kronen—also in advance,—went + on, recklessly. She played marvelously those days, crying out through her + violin the despair she had sealed her lips against. On Thursday, playing + for the master, she turned to find him flourishing his handkerchief, and + went home in a sort of daze, incredulous that she could have moved him to + tears. + </p> + <p> + The little Bulgarian was frankly her slave now. He had given up the + coffee-houses that he might spend that hour near her, on the chance of + seeing her or, failing that, of hearing her play. At night in the Cafe + Hungaria he sat for hours at a time, his elbows on the table, a bottle of + native wine before him, and dreamed of her. He was very fat, the little + Georgiev, very swarthy, very pathetic. The Balkan kettle was simmering in + those days, and he had been set to watch the fire. But instead he had + kindled a flame of his own, and was feeding it with stray words, odd + glances, a bit of music, the curve of a woman's hair behind her ears. For + reports he wrote verses in modern Greek, and through one of those + inadvertences which make tragedy, the Minister of War down in troubled + Bulgaria once received between the pages of a report in cipher on the + fortifications of the Danube a verse in fervid hexameter that made even + that grim official smile. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was quite unconscious. She went on her way methodically: so many + hours of work, so many lessons at fifty Kronen, so many afternoons + searching for something to do, making rounds of shops where her English + might be valuable. + </p> + <p> + And after a few weeks Peter Byrne found time to help. After one + experience, when Harmony left a shop with flaming face and tears in her + eyes, he had thought it best to go with her. The first interview, under + Peter's grim eyes, was a failure. The shopkeeper was obviously suspicious + of Peter. After that, whenever he could escape from clinics, Peter went + along, but stayed outside, smoking his eternal cigarette, and keeping a + watchful eye on things inside the shop. + </p> + <p> + Only once was he needed. At that time, suspecting that all was not well, + from the girl's eyes and the leer on the shopkeeper's face, he had opened + the door in time to hear enough. He had lifted the proprietor bodily and + flung him with a crash into a glass showcase of ornaments for the hair. + Then, entirely cheerful and happy, and unmolested by the frightened + clerks, he led Harmony outside and in a sort of atavistic triumph bought + her a bunch of valley lilies. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, in his sane moments, Peter knew that things were very bad, + indeed. He was still not in love with the girl. He analyzed his own + feeling very carefully, and that was his conclusion. Nevertheless he did a + quixotic thing—which was Peter, of course, all over. + </p> + <p> + He took supper with Stewart and Marie on Friday, and the idea came to him + there. Hardly came to him, being Marie's originally. The little flat was + cozy and bright. Marie, having straightened her kitchen, brought in a + waist she was making and sat sewing while the two men talked. Their + conversation was technical, a new extirpation of the thyroid gland, a + recent nephrectomy. + </p> + <p> + In her curious way Marie liked Peter and respected him. She struggled with + the technicalities of their talk as she sewed, finding here and there a + comprehensive bit. At those times she sat, needle poised, intelligent eyes + on the speakers, until she lost herself again in the mazes of their + English. + </p> + <p> + At ten o'clock she rose and put away her sewing. Peter saw her get the + stone pitcher and knew she was on her way for the evening beer. He took + advantage of her absence to broach the matter of Harmony. + </p> + <p> + “She's up against it, as a matter of fact,” he finished. “It ought to be + easy enough for her to find something, but it isn't.” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly saw her that day in the coffee-house; but she's rather handsome, + isn't she?” + </p> + <p> + “That's one of the difficulties. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart smoked and reflected. “No friends here at all?” + </p> + <p> + “None. There were three girls at first. Two have gone home.” + </p> + <p> + “Could she teach violin?” + </p> + <p> + “I should think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't there any kids in the American colony who want lessons? There's + usually some sort of infant prodigy ready to play at any entertainments of + the Doctors' Club.” + </p> + <p> + “They don't want an American teacher, I fancy; but I suppose I could put a + card up in the club rooms. Damn it all!” cried Peter with a burst of + honest resentment, “why do I have to be poor?” + </p> + <p> + “If you were rolling in gold you could hardly offer her money, could you?” + </p> + <p> + Peter had not thought of that before. It was the only comfort he found in + his poverty. Marie had brought in the beer and was carefully filling the + mugs. “Why do you not marry her?” she asked unexpectedly. “Then you could + take this flat. We are going to Semmering for the winter sports. I would + show her about the stove.” + </p> + <p> + “Marry her, of course!” said Peter gravely. “Just pick her up and carry + her to church! The trifling fact that she does not wish to marry me need + have nothing to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but does she not wish it?” demanded Marie. “Are you so certain, + stupid big one? Do not women always love you?” + </p> + <p> + Ridiculous as the thought was, Peter pondered it as he went back to the + Pension Schwarz. About himself he was absurdly modest, almost humble. It + had never occurred to him that women might care for him for himself. In + his struggling life there had been little time for women. But about + himself as the solution of a problem—that was different. + </p> + <p> + He argued the thing over. In the unlikely contingency of the girl's being + willing, was Stewart right—could two people live as cheaply as one? + Marie was an Austrian and knew how to manage—that was different. And + another thing troubled him. He dreaded to disturb the delicate adjustment + of their relationship; the terra incognita of a young girl's mind daunted + him. There was another consideration which he put resolutely in the back + of his mind—his career. He had seen many a promising one killed by + early marriage, men driven to the hack work of the profession by the + scourge of financial necessity. But that was a matter of the future; the + necessity was immediate. + </p> + <p> + The night was very cold. Gusts of wind from the snow-covered Schneeberg + drove along the streets, making each corner a fortress defended by the + elements, a battlement to be seized, lost, seized again. Peter Byrne + battled valiantly but mechanically. And as he fought he made his decision. + </p> + <p> + He acted with characteristic promptness. Possibly, too, he was afraid of + the strength of his own resolution. By morning sanity might prevail, and + in cold daylight he would see the absurdity of his position. He almost ran + up the winding staircase. At the top his cold fingers fumbled the key and + he swore under his breath. He slammed the door behind him. Peter always + slammed doors, and had an apologetic way of opening the door again and + closing it gently, as if to show that he could. Harmony's room was dark, + but he had surprised her once into a confession that when she was very + downhearted she liked to sit in the dark and be very blue indeed. So he + stopped and knocked. There was no reply, but from Dr. Gates's room across + there came a hum of conversation. He knew at once that Harmony was there. + </p> + <p> + Peter hardly hesitated. He took off his soft hat and ran a hand over his + hair, and he straightened his tie. These preliminaries to a proposal of + marriage being disposed of, he rapped at the door. + </p> + <p> + Anna Gates opened it. She wore a hideous red-flannel wrapper, and in + deference to Harmony a thimble. Her flat breast was stuck with pins, and + pinkish threads revealed the fact that the bathrobe was still under way. + </p> + <p> + “Peter!” she cried. “Come in and get warm.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony, in the blue kimono, gave a little gasp, and flung round her + shoulders the mass of pink on which she had been working. + </p> + <p> + “Please go out!” she said. “I am not dressed.” + </p> + <p> + “You are covered,” returned Anna Gates. “That's all that any sort of + clothing can do. Don't mind her, Peter, and sit on the bed. Look out for + pins!” + </p> + <p> + Peter, however, did not sit down. He stood just inside the closed door and + stared at Harmony—Harmony in the red light from the little open door + of the stove; Harmony in blue and pink and a bit of white petticoat; + Harmony with her hair over her shoulders and tied out of her eyes with an + encircling band of rosy flannel. + </p> + <p> + “Do sit!” cried Anna Gates. “You fill the room so. Bless you, Peter, what + a collar!” + </p> + <p> + No man likes to know his collar is soiled, especially on the eve of + proposing marriage to a pink and blue and white vision. Peter, seated now + on the bed, writhed. + </p> + <p> + “I rapped at Miss Wells's door,” he said. “You were not there.” + </p> + <p> + This last, of course, to Harmony. + </p> + <p> + Anna Gates sniffed. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally!” + </p> + <p> + “I had something to say to you. I—I dare say it is hardly pension + etiquette for you to go over to your room and let me say it there?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony smiled above the flannel. + </p> + <p> + “Could you call it through the door?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly.” + </p> + <p> + “Fiddlesticks!” said Dr. Gates, rising. “I'll go over, of course, but not + for long. There's no fire.” + </p> + <p> + With her hand on the knob, however, Harmony interfered. + </p> + <p> + “Please!” she implored. “I am not dressed and I'd rather not.” She turned + to Peter. “You can say it before her, can't you? She—I have told her + all about things.” + </p> + <p> + Peter hesitated. He felt ridiculous for the second time that night. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “It was merely an idea I had. I saw a little apartment furnished—you + could learn to use the stove, unless, of course, you don't like + housekeeping—and food is really awfully cheap. Why, at these + delicatessen places and bakeshops—” + </p> + <p> + Here he paused for breath and found Dr. Gates's quizzical glance fixed on + him, and Harmony's startled eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What I am trying to say,” he exploded, “is that I believe if you would + marry me it would solve some of your troubles anyhow.” He was talking for + time now, against Harmony's incredulous face. “You'd be taking on others, + of course. I'm not much and I'm as poor—well, you know. It—it + was the apartment that gave me the idea—” + </p> + <p> + “And the stove!” said Harmony; and suddenly burst into joyous laughter. + After a rather shocked instant Dr. Gates joined her. It was real mirth + with Harmony, the first laugh of days, that curious laughter of women that + is not far from tears. + </p> + <p> + Peter sat on the bed uncomfortably. He grinned sheepishly and made a last + feeble attempt to stick to his guns. + </p> + <p> + “I mean it. You know I'm not in love with you or you with me, of course. + But we are such a pair of waifs, and I thought we might get along. Lord + knows I need some one to look after me!” + </p> + <p> + “And Emma?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no Emma. I made her up.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony sobered at that. + </p> + <p> + “It is only”—she gasped a little for breath—“it is only your—your + transparency, Peter.” It was the first time she had called him Peter. “You + know how things are with me and you want to help me, and out of your + generosity you are willing to take on another burden. Oh, Peter!” + </p> + <p> + And here, Harmony being an emotional young person, the tears beat the + laughter to the surface and had to be wiped away under the cover of mirth. + </p> + <p> + Anna Gates, having recovered herself, sat back and surveyed them both + sternly through her glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Once for all,” she said brusquely, “let such foolishness end. Peter, I am + ashamed of you. Marriage is not for you—not yet, not for a dozen + years. Any man can saddle himself with a wife; not every man can be what + you may be if you keep your senses and stay single. And the same is true + for you, girl. To tide over a bad six months you would sacrifice the very + thing you are both struggling for?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure we don't intend to do it,” replied Harmony meekly. + </p> + <p> + “Not now. Some day you may be tempted. When that time comes, remember what + I say. Matrimonially speaking, each of you is fatal to the other. Now go + away and let me alone. I'm not accustomed to proposals of marriage.” + </p> + <p> + It was in some confusion of mind that Peter Byrne took himself off to the + bedroom with the cold tiled stove and the bed that was as comfortable as a + washtub. Undeniably he was relieved. Also Harmony's problem was yet + unsolved. Also she had called him Peter. + </p> + <p> + Also he had said he was not in love with her. Was he so sure of that? + </p> + <p> + At midnight, just as Peter, rolled in the bedclothing, had managed to warm + the cold concavity of his bed and had dozed off, Anna Gates knocked at his + door. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Peter, still comfortably asleep. + </p> + <p> + “It is Dr. Gates.” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, Doctor—have to 'xcuse me,” mumbled Peter from the blanket. + </p> + <p> + “Peter!” + </p> + <p> + Peter roused to a chilled and indignant consciousness and sat up in bed. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Open the door just a crack.” + </p> + <p> + Resignedly Peter crawled out of bed, carefully turning the coverings up to + retain as much heat as possible. An icy blast from the open window blew + round him, setting everything movable in the little room to quivering. He + fumbled in the dark for his slippers, failed to find them, and yawning + noisily went to the door. + </p> + <p> + Anna Gates, with a candle, was outside. Her short, graying hair was out of + its hard knot, and hung in an equally uncompromising six-inch plait down + her back. She had no glasses, and over the candle-frame she peered + shortsightedly at Peter. + </p> + <p> + “It's about Jimmy,” she said. “I don't know what's got into me, but I've + forgotten for three days. It's a good bit more than time for a letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Great Scott!” + </p> + <p> + “Both yesterday and to-day he asked for it and to-day he fretted a little. + The nurse found him crying.” + </p> + <p> + “The poor little devil!” said Peter contritely. “Overdue, is it? I'll fix + it to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave it under the door where I can get it in the morning. I'm off at + seven.” + </p> + <p> + “The envelope?” + </p> + <p> + “Here it is. And take my candle. I'm going to bed.” + </p> + <p> + That was at midnight or shortly after. Half after one struck from the twin + clocks of the Votivkirche and echoed from the Stephansplatz across the + city. It found Peter with the window closed, sitting up in bed, a candle + balanced on one knee, a writing-tablet on the other. + </p> + <p> + He was writing a spirited narrative of a chamois hunt in which he had + taken part that day, including a detailed description of the quarry, which + weighed, according to Peter, two hundred and fifty pounds, Peter being + strong on imagination and short on facts as regards the Alpine chamois. + Then, trying to read the letter from a small boy's point of view and + deciding that it lacked snap, he added by way of postscript a harrowing + incident of avalanche, rope, guide, and ice axe. He ended in a sort of + glow of authorship, and after some thought took fifty pounds off the + chamois. + </p> + <p> + The letter finished, he put it in a much-used envelope addressed to Jimmy + Conroy—an envelope that stamped the whole episode as authentic, + bearing as it did an undecipherable date and the postmark of a tiny + village in the Austrian Tyrol. + </p> + <p> + It was almost two when Peter put out the candle and settled himself to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + It was just two o'clock when the night nurse, making rounds in her ward in + the general hospital, found a small boy very much awake on his pillow, and + taking off her felt slipper shook it at him in pretended fury. + </p> + <p> + “Now, thou bad one!” she said. “Awake, when the Herr Doktor orders sleep! + Shall I use the slipper?” + </p> + <p> + The boy replied in German with a strong English accent. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot sleep. Yesterday the Fraulein Elisabet said that in the + mountains there are accidents, and that sometimes—” + </p> + <p> + “The Fraulein Elisabet is a great fool. Tomorrow comes thy letter of a + certainty. The post has been delayed with great snows. Thy father has + perhaps captured a great boar, or a—a chamois, and he writes of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do chamois have horns?” + </p> + <p> + “Ja. Great horns—so.” + </p> + <p> + “He will send them to me! And there are no accidents?” + </p> + <p> + “None. Now sleep, or—the slipper.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + So far Harmony's small world in the old city had consisted of Scatchy and + the Big Soprano, Peter, and Anna Gates, with far off in the firmament the + master. Scatchy and the Big Soprano had gone, weeping anxious postcards + from every way station it is true, but nevertheless gone. Peter and Anna + Gates remained, and the master as long as her funds held out. To them now + she was about to add Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + The bathrobe was finished. Out of the little doctor's chaos of pink + flannel Harmony had brought order. The result, masculine and complete even + to its tassels and cord of pink yarn, was ready to be presented. It was + with mingled emotions that Anna Gates wrapped it up and gave it to Harmony + the next morning. + </p> + <p> + “He hasn't been so well the last day or two,” she said. “He doesn't sleep + much—that's the worst of those heart conditions. Sometimes, while + I've been working on this thing, I've wondered—Well, we're making a + fight anyhow. And better take the letter, too, Harry. I might forget and + make lecture notes on it, and if I spoil that envelope—” + </p> + <p> + Harmony had arranged to carry the bathrobe to the hospital, meeting the + doctor there after her early clinic. She knew Jimmy's little story quite + well. Anna Gates had told it to her in detail. + </p> + <p> + “Just one of the tragedies of the world, my dear,” she had finished. “You + think you have a tragedy, but you have youth and hope; I think I have my + own little tragedy, because I have to go through the rest of life alone, + when taken in time I'd have been a good wife and mother. Still I have my + work. But this little chap, brought over here by a father who hoped to see + him cured, and spent all he had to bring him here, and then—died. It + gets me by the throat.” + </p> + <p> + “And the boy does not know?” Harmony had asked, her eyes wide. + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks to Peter. He thinks his father is still in the mountains. When + we heard about it Peter went up and saw that he was buried. It took about + all the money there was. He wrote home about it, too, to the place they + came from. There has never been any reply. Then ever since Peter has + written these letters. Jimmy lives for them.” + </p> + <p> + Peter! It was always Peter. Peter did this. Peter said that. Peter thought + thus. A very large part of Harmony's life was Peter in those days. + </p> + <p> + She was thinking of him as she waited at the gate of the hospital for Anna + Gates, thinking of his shabby gray suit and unkempt hair, of his letter + that she carried to Jimmy Conroy, of his quixotic proposal of the night + before. Of the proposal, most of all—it was so eminently + characteristic of Peter, from the conception of the plan to its execution. + Harmony's thought of Peter was very tender that morning as she stood in + the arched gateway out of reach of the wind from the Schneeberg. The + tenderness and the bright color brought by the wind made her very + beautiful. Little Marie, waiting across the Alserstrasse for a bus, and + stamping from one foot to the other to keep warm, recognized and admired + her. After all, the American women were chic, she decided, although some + of the doctors had wives of a dowdiness—Himmel! And she could copy + the Fraulein's hat for two Kronen and a bit of ribbon she possessed. + </p> + <p> + The presentation of the bathrobe was a success. Six nurses and a Dozent + with a red beard stood about and watched Jimmy put into it, and the + Dozent, who had been engaged for five years and could not marry because + the hospital board forbade it, made a speech for Jimmy in awe-inspiring + German, ending up with a poem that was intended to be funny, but that made + the nurses cry. From which it will be seen that Jimmy was a great + favorite. + </p> + <p> + During the ceremony, for such it was, the Germans loving a ceremony, Jimmy + kept his eyes on the letter in Anna Gates's hand and waited. That the + letter had come was enough. He lay back in anticipatory joy, and let + himself be talked over, and bathrobed, and his hair parted Austrian + fashion and turned up over a finger, which is very Austrian indeed. He + liked Harmony. The girl caught his eyes on her more than once. He + interrupted the speech once to ask her just what part of the robe she had + made, and whether she had made the tassel. When she admitted the tassel, + his admiration became mixed with respect. + </p> + <p> + It was a bright day, for a marvel. Sunlight came through the barred window + behind Jimmy's bed, and brought into dazzling radiance the pink bathrobe, + and Harmony's eyes, and fat Nurse Elisabet's white apron. It lay on the + bedspread in great squares, outlined by the shadows of the window bars. + Now and then the sentry, pacing outside, would advance as far as Jimmy's + window, and a warlike silhouette of military cap and the upper end of a + carbine would appear on the coverlet. These events, however, were rare, + the sentry preferring the shelter of the gateway and the odor of boiling + onions from the lodge just inside. + </p> + <p> + The Dozent retired to his room for the second breakfast; the nurses went + about the business of the ward; Dr. Anna Gates drew a hairpin from her + hair and made a great show of opening the many times opened envelope. + </p> + <p> + “The letter at last!” she said. “Shall I read it or will you?” + </p> + <p> + “You read it. It takes me so long. I'll read it all day, after you are + gone. I always do.” + </p> + <p> + Anna Gates read the letter. She read aloud poor Peter's first halting + lines, when he was struggling against sleep and cold. They were mainly an + apology for the delay. Then forgetting discomfort in the joy of creation, + he became more comfortable. The account of the near-accident was + wonderfully graphic; the description of the chamois was fervid, if not + accurate. But consternation came with the end. + </p> + <p> + The letter apparently finished, there was yet another sheet. The doctor + read on. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake,” said Peter's frantic postscript, “find out how much a + medium-sized chamois—” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Gates stopped “—ought to weigh,” was the rest of it, “and fix it + right in the letter. The kid's too smart to be fooled and I never saw a + chamois outside of a drug store. They have horns, haven't they?” + </p> + <p> + “That's funny!” said Jimmy Conway. + </p> + <p> + “That was one of my papers slipped in by mistake,” remarked Dr. Gates, + with dignity, and flashing a wild appeal for help to Harmony. + </p> + <p> + “How did one of your papers get in when it was sealed?” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” observed Harmony, leaning forward, “that little boys must not + ask too many questions, especially when Christmas is only six weeks off.” + </p> + <p> + “I know! He wants to send me the horns the way he sent me the boar's + tusks.” + </p> + <p> + For Peter, having in one letter unwisely recorded the slaughter of a boar, + had been obliged to ransack Vienna for a pair of tusks. The tusks had not + been so difficult. But horns! + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was contented with his solution and asked no more questions. The + morning's excitement had tired him, and he lay back. Dr. Gates went to + hold a whispered consultation with the nurse, and came back, looking + grave. + </p> + <p> + The boy was asleep, holding the letter in his thin hands. + </p> + <p> + The visit to the hospital was a good thing for Harmony—to find some + one worse off than she was, to satisfy that eternal desire of women to do + something, however small, for some one else. Her own troubles looked very + small to her that day as she left the hospital and stepped out into the + bright sunshine. + </p> + <p> + She passed the impassive sentry, then turned and went back to him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to do a very kind thing?” she asked in German. + </p> + <p> + Now the conversation of an Austrian sentry consists of yea, yea, and nay, + nay, and not always that. But Harmony was lovely and the sun was + moderating the wind. The sentry looked round; no one was near. + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish?” + </p> + <p> + “Inside that third window is a small boy and he is very ill. I do not + think—perhaps he will never be well again. Could you not, now and + then, pass the window? It pleases him.” + </p> + <p> + “Pass the window! But why?” + </p> + <p> + “In America we see few of our soldiers. He likes to see you and the gun.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the gun!” He smiled and nodded in comprehension, then, as an officer + appeared in the door of a coffee-house across the street, he stiffened + into immobility and stared past Harmony into space. But the girl knew he + would do as she had desired. + </p> + <p> + That day brought good luck to Harmony. The wife of one of the professors + at the hospital desired English conversation at two Kronen an hour. + </p> + <p> + Peter brought the news home at noon, and that afternoon Harmony was + engaged. It was little enough, but it was something. It did much more than + offer her two Kronen an hour; it gave her back her self-confidence, + although the immediate result was rather tragic. + </p> + <p> + The Frau Professor Bergmeister, infatuated with English and with Harmony, + engaged her, and took her first two Kronen worth that afternoon. It was + the day for a music-lesson. Harmony arrived five minutes late, panting, + hat awry, and so full of the Frau Professor Bergmeister that she could + think of nothing else. + </p> + <p> + Obedient to orders she had placed the envelope containing her fifty Kronen + before the secretary as she went in. The master was out of humor. Should + he, the teacher of the great Koert, be kept waiting for a chit of a girl—only, + of course, he said “das Kindchen” or some other German equivalent for chit—and + then have her come into the sacred presence breathless, and salute him + between gasps as the Frau Professor Bergmeister? + </p> + <p> + Being excited and now confused by her error, and being also rather + tremulous with three flights of stairs at top speed, Harmony dropped her + bow. In point of heinousness this classes with dropping one's infant child + from an upper window, or sitting on the wrong side of a carriage when with + a lady. + </p> + <p> + The master, thus thrice outraged, rose slowly and glared at Harmony. Then + with a lordly gesture to her to follow he stalked to the outer room, and + picking up the envelope with the fifty Kronen held it out to her without a + word. + </p> + <p> + Harmony's world came crashing about her ears. She stared stupidly at the + envelope in her hand, at the master's retreating back. + </p> + <p> + Two girl students waiting their turn, envelopes in hand, giggled together. + Harmony saw them and flushed scarlet. But the lady secretary touched her + arm. + </p> + <p> + “It does not matter, Fraulein. He does so sometimes. Always he is sorry. + You will come for your next lesson, not so? and all will be well. You are + his well-beloved pupil. To-night he will not eat for grief that he has + hurt you.” + </p> + <p> + The ring of sincerity in the shabby secretary's voice was unmistakable. + Her tense throat relaxed. She looked across at the two students who had + laughed. They were not laughing now. Something of fellowship and + understanding passed between them in the glance. After all, it was in the + day's work—would come to one of them next, perhaps. And they had + much in common—the struggle, their faith, the everlasting + loneliness, the little white envelopes, each with its fifty Kronen. + </p> + <p> + Vaguely comforted, but with the light gone out of her day of days, Harmony + went down the three long flights and out into the brightness of the winter + day. + </p> + <p> + On the Ring she almost ran into Peter. He was striding toward her, giving + a definite impression of being bound for some particular destination and + of being behind time. That this was not the case was shown by the celerity + with which, when he saw Harmony, he turned about and walked with her. + </p> + <p> + “I had an hour or two,” he explained, “and I thought I'd walk. But walking + is a social habit, like drinking. I hate to walk alone. How about the Frau + Professor?” + </p> + <p> + “She has taken me on. I'm very happy. But, Dr. Byrne—” + </p> + <p> + “You called me Peter last night.” + </p> + <p> + “That was different. You had just proposed to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if that's all that's necessary—” He stopped in the center of + the busy Ring with every evident intention of proposing again. + </p> + <p> + “Please, Peter!” + </p> + <p> + “Aha! Victory! Well, what about the Frau Professor Bergmeister?” + </p> + <p> + “She asks so many questions about America; and I cannot answer them.” + </p> + <p> + “For instance?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, taxes now. She's very much interested in taxes.” + </p> + <p> + “Never owned anything taxable except a dog—and that wasn't a tax + anyhow; it was a license. Can't you switch her on to medicine or surgery, + where I'd be of some use?” + </p> + <p> + “She says to-morrow we'll talk of the tariff and customs duties.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've got something to say on that.” He pulled from his overcoat + pocket a largish bundle—Peter always bulged with packages—and + held it out for her to see. “Tell the Frau Professor Bergmeister with my + compliments,” he said, “that because some idiot at home sent me five + pounds of tobacco, hearing from afar my groans over the tobacco here, I + have passed from mere financial stress to destitution. The Austrian + customs have taken from me to-day the equivalent of ten dollars in duty. I + offered them the tobacco on bended knee, but they scorned it.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “Really.” + </p> + <p> + Under this lightness Harmony sensed the real anxiety. Ten dollars was + fifty Kronen, and fifty Kronen was a great deal of money. She reached over + and patted his arm. + </p> + <p> + “You'll make it up in some way. Can't you cut off some little + extravagance?” + </p> + <p> + “I might cut down on my tailor bills.” He looked down at himself + whimsically. “Or on ties. I'm positively reckless about ties!” + </p> + <p> + They walked on in silence. A detachment of soldiery, busy with that + eternal military activity that seems to get nowhere, passed on a dog-trot. + Peter looked at them critically. + </p> + <p> + “Bosnians,” he observed. “Raw, half-fed troops from Bosnia, nine out of + ten of them tubercular. It's a rotten game, this military play of Europe. + How's Jimmy?” + </p> + <p> + “We left him very happy with your letter.” + </p> + <p> + Peter flushed. “I expect it was pretty poor stuff,” he apologized. “I've + never seen the Alps except from a train window, and as for a chamois—” + </p> + <p> + “He says his father will surely send him the horns.” + </p> + <p> + Peter groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Of course!” he said. “Why, in Heaven's name, didn't I make it an eagle? + One can always buy a feather or two. But horns? He really liked the + letter?” + </p> + <p> + “He adored it. He went to sleep almost at once with it in his hands.” + </p> + <p> + Peter glowed. The small irritation of the custom-house forgotten, he + talked of Jimmy; of what had been done and might still be done, if only + there were money; and from Jimmy he talked boy. He had had a boys' club at + home during his short experience in general practice. Boys were his hobby. + </p> + <p> + “Scum of the earth, most of them,” he said, his plain face glowing. “Dirty + little beggars off the street. At first they stole my tobacco; and one of + them pawned a medical book or two! Then they got to playing the game + right. By Jove, Harmony, I wish you could have seen them! Used to line 'em + up and make 'em spell, and the two best spellers were allowed to fight it + out with gloves—my own method, and it worked. Spell! They'd spell + their heads off to get a chance at the gloves. Gee, how I hated to give + them up!” + </p> + <p> + This was a new Peter, a boyish individual Harmony had never met before. + For the first time it struck her that Peter was young. He had always + seemed rather old, solid and dependable, the fault of his elder brother + attitude to her, no doubt. She was suddenly rather shy, a bit aloof. Peter + felt the change and thought she was bored. He talked of other things. + </p> + <p> + A surprise was waiting for them in the cold lower hallway of the Pension + Schwarz. A trunk was there, locked and roped, and on the trunk, in ulster + and hat, sat Dr. Gates. Olga, looking rather frightened, was coming down + with a traveling-bag. She put down the bag and scuttled up the staircase + like a scared rabbit. The little doctor was grim. She eyed Peter and + Harmony with an impersonal hostility, referable to her humor. + </p> + <p> + “I've been waiting for you two,” she flung at them. “I've had a terrific + row upstairs and I'm going. That woman's a devil!” + </p> + <p> + It had been a bad day for Harmony, and this new development, after + everything else, assumed the proportions of a crisis. She had clung, at + first out of sheer loneliness and recently out of affection, to the sharp + little doctor with her mannish affectations, her soft and womanly heart. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, child.” Anna Gates moved over on the trunk. “You are fagged + out. Peter, will you stop looking murderous and listen to me? How much did + it cost the three of us to live in this abode of virtue?” + </p> + <p> + It was simple addition. The total was rather appalling. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so. Now this is my plan. It may not be conventional, but it + will be respectable enough to satisfy anybody. And it will be cheaper, I'm + sure of that: We are all going out to the hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa, + and Harmony shall keep house for us!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + It was the middle of November when Anna Gates, sitting on her trunk in the + cold entrance hall on the Hirschengasse, flung the conversational bomb + that left empty three rooms in the Pension Schwarz. + </p> + <p> + Mid-December found Harmony back and fully established in the lodge of + Maria Theresa on the Street of Seven Stars—back, but with a + difference. True, the gate still swung back and forward on rusty hinges, + obedient to every whim of the December gales; but the casement windows in + the salon no longer creaked or admitted drafts, thanks to Peter and a roll + of rubber weather-casing. The grand piano, which had been Scatchy's rented + extravagance, had gone never to return, and in its corner stood a battered + but still usable upright. Under the great chandelier sat a table with an + oil lamp, and evening and morning the white-tiled stove gleamed warm with + fire. On the table by the lamp were the combined medical books of Peter + and Anna Gates, and an ash-tray which also they used in common. + </p> + <p> + Shabby still, of course, bare, almost denuded, the salon of Maria Theresa. + But at night, with the lamp lighted and the little door of the stove open, + and perhaps, when the dishes from supper had been washed, with Harmony + playing softly, it took resolution on Peter's part to put on his overcoat + and face a lecture on the resection of a rib or a discussion of the + function of the pituitary body. + </p> + <p> + The new arrangement had proved itself in more ways than one not only + greater in comfort, but in economy. Food was amazingly cheap. Coal, which + had cost ninety Hellers a bucket at the Pension Schwarz, they bought in + quantity and could afford to use lavishly. Oil for the lamp was a trifle. + They dined on venison now and then, when the shop across boasted a deer + from the mountains. They had other game occasionally, when Peter, carrying + home a mysterious package, would make them guess what it might contain. + Always on such occasions Harmony guessed rabbits. She knew how to cook + rabbits, and some of the other game worried her. + </p> + <p> + For Harmony was the cook. It had taken many arguments and much coaxing to + make Peter see it that way. In vain Harmony argued the extravagance of + Rosa, now married to the soldier from Salzburg with one lung, or the + tendency of the delicatessen seller to weigh short if one did not watch + him. Peter was firm. + </p> + <p> + It was Dr. Gates, after all, who found the solution. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be too obstinate, Peter,” she admonished him. “The child needs + occupation; she can't practice all day. You and I can keep up the + financial end well enough, reduced as it is. Let her keep house to her + heart's content. That can be her contribution to the general fund.” + </p> + <p> + And that eventually was the way it settled itself, not without demur from + Harmony, who feared her part was too small, and who irritated Anna almost + to a frenzy by cleaning the apartment from end to end to make certain of + her usefulness. + </p> + <p> + A curious little household surely, one that made the wife of the Portier + shake her head, and speak much beneath her breath with the wife of the + brushmaker about the Americans having queer ways and not as the Austrians. + </p> + <p> + The short month had seen a change in all of them. Peter showed it least of + all, perhaps. Men feel physical discomfort less keenly than women, and + Peter had been only subconsciously wretched. He had gained a pound or two + in flesh, perhaps, and he was unmistakably tidier. Anna Gates was growing + round and rosy, and Harmony had trimmed her a hat. But the real change was + in Harmony herself. + </p> + <p> + The girl had become a woman. Who knows the curious psychology by which + such changes come—not in a month or a year; but in an hour, a + breath. One moment Harmony was a shy, tender young creature, all emotion, + quivering at a word, aloof at a glance, prone to occasional introspection + and mysterious daydreams; the next she was a young woman, tender but not + shyly so, incredibly poised, almost formidably dignified on occasion, but + with little girlish lapses into frolic and high spirits. + </p> + <p> + The transition moment with Harmony came about in this wise: They had been + settled for three weeks. The odor of stewing cabbages at the Pension + Schwarz had retired into the oblivion of lost scents, to be recalled, + along with its accompanying memory of discomfort, with every odor of + stewing cabbages for years to come. At the hospital Jimmy had had a bad + week again. It had been an anxious time for all of them. In vain the + sentry had stopped outside the third window and smiled and nodded through + it; in vain—when the street was deserted and there was none to + notice—he went through a bit of the manual of arms on the pavement + outside, ending by setting his gun down with a martial and ringing clang. + </p> + <p> + In vain had Peter exhausted himself in literary efforts, climbing + unheard-of peaks, taking walking-tours through such a Switzerland as never + was, shooting animals of various sorts, but all hornless, as he carefully + emphasized. + </p> + <p> + And now Jimmy was better again. He was propped up in bed, and with the aid + of Nurse Elisabet he had cut out a paper sentry and set it in the barred + window. The real sentry had been very much astonished; he had almost + fallen over backward. On recovering he went entirely through the manual of + arms, and was almost seen by an Oberst-lieutenant. It was all most + exciting. + </p> + <p> + Harmony had been to see Jimmy on the day in question. She had taken him + some gelatin, not without apprehension, it being her first essay in jelly + and Jimmy being frank with the candor of childhood. The jelly had been a + great success. + </p> + <p> + It was when she was about to go that Jimmy broached a matter very near his + heart. + </p> + <p> + “The horns haven't come, have they?” he asked wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “No, not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he got my letter about them?” + </p> + <p> + “He answered it, didn't he?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy drew a long breath. “It's very funny. He's mostly so quick. If I had + the horns, Sister Elisabet would tie them there at the foot of the bed. + And I could pretend I was hunting.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony had a great piece of luck that day. As she went home she saw + hanging in front of the wild-game shop next to the delicatessen store a + fresh deer, and this time it was a stag. Like the others it hung head + down, and as it swayed on its hook its great antlers tapped against the + shop door as if mutely begging admission. + </p> + <p> + She could not buy the antlers. In vain she pleaded, explained, implored. + Harmony enlisted the Portier, and took him across with her. The wild-game + seller was obdurate. He would sell the deer entire, or he would mount head + and antlers for his wife's cousin in Galicia as a Christmas gift. + </p> + <p> + Harmony went back to the lodge and climbed the stairs. She was profoundly + depressed. Even the discovery that Peter had come home early and was + building a fire in the kitchen brought only a fleeting smile. Anna was not + yet home. + </p> + <p> + Peter built the fire. The winter dusk was falling and Harmony made a + movement to light the candles. Peter stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “Can't we have the firelight for a little while? You are always beautiful, + but—you are lovely in the firelight, Harmony.” + </p> + <p> + “That is because you like me. We always think our friends are beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “I am fond of Anna, but I have never thought her beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + The kitchen was small. Harmony, rolling up her sleeves by the table, and + Peter before the stove were very close together. The dusk was fast fading + into darkness; to this tiny room at the back of the old house few street + sounds penetrated. Round them, shutting them off together from the world + of shops with lighted windows, rumbling busses and hurrying humanity, lay + the old lodge with its dingy gardens, its whitewashed halls, its dark and + twisting staircases. + </p> + <p> + Peter had been very careful. He had cultivated a comradely manner with the + girl that had kept her entirely at her ease with him. But it had been + growing increasingly hard. He was only human after all. And he was very + comfortable. Love, healthy human love, thrives on physical ease. + Indigestion is a greater foe to it than poverty. Great love songs are + written, not by poets starving in hall bedrooms, with insistent hunger + gnawing and undermining all that is of the spirit, but by full-fed + gentlemen who sing out of an overflowing of content and wide fellowship, + and who write, no doubt, just after dinner. Love, being a hunger, does not + thrive on hunger. + </p> + <p> + Thus Peter. He had never found women essential, being occupied in the + struggle for other essentials. Women had had little part in his busy life. + Once or twice he had seen visions, dreamed dreams, to waken himself + savagely to the fact that not for many years could he afford the luxury of + tender eyes looking up into his, of soft arms about his neck. So he had + kept away from women with almost ferocious determination. And now! + </p> + <p> + He drew a chair before the stove and sat down. Standing or sitting, he was + much too large for the kitchen. He sat in the chair, with his hands + hanging, fingers interlaced between his knees. + </p> + <p> + The firelight glowed over his strong, rather irregular features. Harmony, + knife poised over the evening's potatoes, looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “I think you are sad to-night, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Depressed a bit. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't money again?” + </p> + <p> + It was generally money with any of the three, and only the week before + Peter had found an error in his bank balance which meant that he was a + hundred Kronen or so poorer than he had thought. This discovery had been + very upsetting. + </p> + <p> + “Not more than usual. Don't mind me. I'll probably end in a roaring bad + temper and smash something. My moody spells often break up that way!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony put down the paring-knife, and going over to where he sat rested a + hand on his shoulder. Peter drew away from it. + </p> + <p> + “I have hurt you in some way?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “Could—could you talk about whatever it is? That helps sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't understand.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven't quarreled with Anna?” Harmony asked, real concern in her + voice. + </p> + <p> + “No. Good Lord, Harmony, don't ask me what's wrong! I don't know myself.” + </p> + <p> + He got up almost violently and set the little chair back against the wall. + Hurt and astonished, Harmony went back to the table. The kitchen was + entirely dark, save for the firelight, which gleamed on the bare floor and + the red legs of the table. She was fumbling with a match and the candle + when she realized that Peter was just behind her, very close. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest,” he said huskily. The next moment he had caught her to him, was + kissing her lips, her hair. + </p> + <p> + Harmony's heart beat wildly. There was no use struggling against him. The + gates of his self-control were down: all his loneliness, his starved + senses rushed forth in tardy assertion. + </p> + <p> + After a moment Peter kissed her eyelids very gently and let her go. + Harmony was trembling, but with shock and alarm only. The storm that had + torn him root and branch from his firm ground of self-restraint left her + only shaken. He was still very close to her; she could hear him breathing. + He did not attempt to speak. With every atom of strength that was left in + him he was fighting a mad desire to take her in his arms again and keep + her there. + </p> + <p> + That was the moment when Harmony became a woman. + </p> + <p> + She lighted the candle with the match she still held. Then she turned and + faced him. + </p> + <p> + “That sort of thing is not for you and me, Peter,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “There isn't any question about it.” + </p> + <p> + He was still reckless, even argumentative; the crying need of her still + obsessed him. “Why not? Why should I not take you in my arms? If there is + a moment of happiness to be had in this grind of work and loneliness—” + </p> + <p> + “It has not made me happy.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps nothing else she could have said would have been so effectual. + Love demands reciprocation; he could read no passion in her voice. He knew + then that he had left her unstirred. He dropped his outstretched arms. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “I would rather not talk about it, please.” + </p> + <p> + The banging of a door far off told them that Anna Gates had arrived and + was taking off her galoshes in the entry. Peter drew a long breath, and, + after his habit, shook himself. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, we'll not talk of it. But, for Heaven's sake, Harmony, don't + avoid me. I'm not a cad. I'll let you alone.” + </p> + <p> + There was only time for a glance of understanding between them, of promise + from Peter, of acceptance from the girl. When Anna Gates entered the + kitchen she found Harmony peeling potatoes and Peter filling up an already + overfed stove. + </p> + <p> + That night, during that darkest hour before the dawn when the thrifty city + fathers of the old town had shut off the street lights because two hours + later the sun would rise and furnish light that cost the taxpayers + nothing, the Portier's wife awakened. + </p> + <p> + The room was very silent, too silent. On those rare occasions when the + Portier's wife awakened in the night and heard the twin clocks of the + Votivkirche strike three, and listened, perhaps, while the delicatessen + seller ambled home from the Schubert Society, singing beerily as he + ambled, she was wont to hear from the bed beside hers the rhythmic + respiration that told her how safe from Schubert Societies and such like + evils was her lord. There was no sound at all. + </p> + <p> + The Portier's wife raised herself on her elbow and reached over. Owing to + the width of the table that stood between the beds and to a sweeping that + day which had left the beds far apart she met nothing but empty air. Words + had small effect on the Portier, who slept fathoms deep in + unconsciousness. Also she did not wish to get up—the floor was cold + and a wind blowing. Could she not hear it and the creaking of the deer + across the street, as it swung on its hook? + </p> + <p> + The wife of the Portier was a person of resource. She took the iron + candlestick from the table and flung it into the darkness at the Portier's + pillow. No startled yell followed. + </p> + <p> + Suspicion thus confirmed, the Portier's wife forgot the cold floor and the + wind, and barefoot felt her way into the hall. + </p> + <p> + Suspicion was doubly confirmed. The chain was off the door; it even stood + open an inch or two. + </p> + <p> + Armed with a second candlestick she stationed herself inside the door and + waited. The stone floor was icy, but the fury of a woman scorned kept her + warm. The Votivkirche struck one, two, three quarters of an hour. The + candlestick in her hand changed from iron to ice, from ice to red-hot + fire. Still the Portier had not come back and the door chain swung in the + wind. + </p> + <p> + At four o'clock she retired to the bedroom again. Indignation had changed + to fear, coupled with sneezing. Surely even the Schubert Society—What + was that? + </p> + <p> + From the Portier's bed was coming a rhythmic respiration! + </p> + <p> + She roused him, standing over him with the iron candlestick, now lighted, + and gazing at him with eyes in which alarm struggled with suspicion. + </p> + <p> + “Thou hast been out of thy bed!” + </p> + <p> + “But no!” + </p> + <p> + “An hour since the bed was empty.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou dreamest.” + </p> + <p> + “The chain is off the door.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it remain so and sleep. What have we to steal or the Americans above? + Sleep and keep peace.” + </p> + <p> + He yawned and was instantly asleep again. The Portier's wife crawled into + her bed and warmed her aching feet under the crimson feather comfort. But + her soul was shaken. + </p> + <p> + The Devil had been known to come at night and take innocent ones out to do + his evil. The innocent ones knew it not, but it might be told by the soles + of the feet, which were always soiled. + </p> + <p> + At dawn the Portier's wife cautiously uncovered the soles of her sleeping + lord's feet, and fell back gasping. They were quite black, as of one who + had tramped in garden mould. + </p> + <p> + Early the next morning Harmony, after a restless night, opened the door + from the salon of Maria Theresa into the hall and set out a pitcher for + the milk. + </p> + <p> + On the floor, just outside, lay the antlers from the deer across the + street. Tied to them was a bit of paper, and on it was written the one + word, “Still!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + In looking back after a catastrophe it is easy to trace the steps by which + the inevitable advanced. Destiny marches, not by great leaps but with a + thousand small and painful steps, and here and there it leaves its mark, a + footprint on a naked soul. We trace a life by its scars, as a tree by its + rings. + </p> + <p> + Anna Gates was not the best possible companion for Harmony, and this with + every allowance for her real kindliness, her genuine affection for the + girl. Life had destroyed her illusions, and it was of illusions that + Harmony's veil had been woven. To Anna Gates, worn with a thousand + sleepless nights, a thousand thankless days, withered before her time with + the struggling routine of medical practice, sapped with endless calls for + sympathy and aid, existence ceased to be spiritual and became + physiological. + </p> + <p> + Life and birth and death had lost their mysteries. The veil was rent. + </p> + <p> + To fit this existence of hers she had built herself a curious creed, a + philosophy of individualism, from behind which she flung strange + bombshells of theories, shafts of distorted moralities, personal + liberties, irresponsibilities, a supreme scorn for modern law and the + prophets. Nature, she claimed, was her law and her prophet. + </p> + <p> + In her hard-working, virginal life her theories had wrought no mischief. + Temptation had been lacking to exploit them, and even in the event of the + opportunity it was doubtful whether she would have had the strength of her + convictions. Men love theories, but seldom have the courage of them, and + Anna Gates was largely masculine. Women, being literal, are apt to absorb + dangerous doctrine and put it to the test. When it is false doctrine they + discover it too late. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was now a woman. + </p> + <p> + Anna would have cut off her hand sooner than have brought the girl to + harm; but she loved to generalize. It amused her to see Harmony's eyes + widen with horror at one of her radical beliefs. Nothing pleased her more + than to pit her individualism against the girl's rigid and conventional + morality, and down her by some apparently unanswerable argument. + </p> + <p> + On the day after the incident in the kitchen such an argument took place—hardly + an argument, for Harmony knew nothing of mental fencing. Anna had taken a + heavy cold, and remained at home. Harmony had been practicing, and at the + end she played a little winter song by some modern composer. It breathed + all the purity of a white winter's day; it was as chaste as ice and as + cold; and yet throughout was the thought of green things hiding beneath + the snow and the hope of spring. + </p> + <p> + Harmony, having finished, voiced some such feeling. She was rather ashamed + of her thought. + </p> + <p> + “It seems that way to me,” she finished apologetically. “It sounds rather + silly. I always think I can tell the sort of person who composes certain + things.” + </p> + <p> + “And this gentleman who writes of winter?” + </p> + <p> + “I think he is very reserved. And that he has never loved any one.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “When there is any love in music, any heart, one always feels it, exactly + as in books—the difference between a love story and—and—” + </p> + <p> + “—a dictionary!” + </p> + <p> + “You always laugh,” Harmony complained + </p> + <p> + “That's better than weeping. When I think of the rotten way things go in + this world I want to weep always.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't find it a bad world. Of course there are bad people, but there + are good ones.” + </p> + <p> + “Where? Peter and you and I, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “There are plenty of good men.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you call a good man?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony hesitated, then went on bravely:— + </p> + <p> + “Honorable men.” + </p> + <p> + Anna smiled. “My dear child,” she said, “you substitute the code of a + gentleman for the Mosaic Law. Of course your good man is a monogamist?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony nodded, puzzled eyes on Anna. + </p> + <p> + “Then there are no 'good' people in the polygamous countries, I suppose! + When there were twelve women to every man, a man took a dozen wives. + To-day in our part of the globe there is one woman—and a fifth over—for + every man. Each man gets one woman, and for every five couples there is a + derelict like myself, mateless.” + </p> + <p> + Anna's amazing frankness about herself often confused Harmony. Her + resentment at her single condition, because it left her childless, brought + forth theories that shocked and alarmed the girl. In the atmosphere in + which Harmony had been reared single women were always presumed to be thus + by choice and to regard with certain tolerance those weaker sisters who + had married. Anna, on the contrary, was frankly a derelict, frankly + regretted her maiden condition and railed with bitterness against her + enforced childlessness. The near approach of Christmas had for years found + her morose and resentful. There are, here and there, such women, + essentially mothers but not necessarily wives, their sole passion that of + maternity. + </p> + <p> + Anna, argumentative and reckless, talked on. She tore away, in her + resentment, every theory of existence the girl had ever known, and offered + her instead an incredible liberty in the name of the freedom of the + individual. Harmony found all her foundations of living shaken, and though + refusing to accept Anna's theories, found her faith in her own weakened. + She sat back, pale and silent, listening, while Anna built up out of her + discontent a new heaven and a new earth, with liberty written high in its + firmament. + </p> + <p> + When her reckless mood had passed Anna was regretful enough at the girl's + stricken face. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a fool!” she said contritely. “If Peter had been here he'd have + throttled me. I deserve it. I'm a theorist, pure and simple, and theorists + are the anarchists of society. There's only one comfort about us—we + never live up to our convictions. Now forget all this rot I've been + talking.” + </p> + <p> + Peter brought up the mail that afternoon, a Christmas card or two for + Anna, depressingly early, and a letter from the Big Soprano for Harmony + from New York. The Big Soprano was very glad to be back and spent two + pages over her chances for concert work. + </p> + <p> + “... I could have done as well had I stayed at home. If I had had the + money they wanted, to go to Geneva and sing 'Brunnhilde,' it would have + helped a lot. I could have said I'd sung in opera in Europe and at least + have had a hearing at the Met. But I didn't, and I'm back at the church + again and glad to get my old salary. If it's at all possible, stay until + the master has presented you in a concert. He's quite right, you haven't a + chance unless he does. And now I'll quit grumbling. + </p> + <p> + “Scatchy met her Henry at the dock and looked quite lovely, flushed with + excitement and having been up since dawn curling her hair. He was rather a + disappointment—small and blond, with light blue eyes, and almost + dapper. But oh, my dear, I wouldn't care how pale a man's eyes were if he + looked at me the way Henry looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “They asked me to luncheon with them, but I knew they wanted to be alone + together, and so I ate a bite or two, all I could swallow for the lump in + my throat, by myself. I was homesick enough in old Wien, but I am just as + homesick now that I am here, for we are really homesick only for people, + not places. And no one really cared whether I came back or not.” + </p> + <p> + Peter had been miserable all day, not with regret for the day before, but + with fear. What if Harmony should decide that the situation was unpleasant + and decide to leave? What if a reckless impulse, recklessly carried out, + were to break up an arrangement that had made a green oasis of happiness + and content for all of them in the desert of their common despair? + </p> + <p> + If he had only let her go and apologized! But no, he had had to argue, to + justify himself, to make an idiot of himself generally. He almost groaned + aloud as he opened the gate end crossed the wintry garden. + </p> + <p> + He need not have feared. Harmony had taken him entirely at his word. “I am + not a beast. I'll let you alone,” he had said. She had had a bad night, as + nights go. She had gone through the painful introspection which, in a + thoroughly good girl, always follows such an outburst as Peter's. Had she + said or done anything to make him think—Surely she had not! Had she + been wrong about Peter after all? Surely not again. + </p> + <p> + While the Portier's wife, waked, as may happen, by an unaccustomed + silence, was standing guard in the hall below, iron candlestick in hand, + Harmony, having read the Litany through in the not particularly religious + hope of getting to sleep, was dreaming placidly. It was Peter who tossed + and turned almost all night. Truly there had been little sleep that night + in the old hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa. + </p> + <p> + Peter, still not quite at ease, that evening kept out of the kitchen while + supper was preparing. Anna, radical theories forgotten and wearing a + knitted shawl against drafts, was making a salad, and Harmony, all anxiety + and flushed with heat, was broiling a steak. + </p> + <p> + Steak was an extravagance, to be cooked with clear hot coals and prayer. + </p> + <p> + “Peter,” she called, “you may set the table. And try to lay the cloth + straight.” + </p> + <p> + Peter, exiled in the salon, came joyously. Obviously the wretched business + of yesterday was forgiven. He came to the door, pipe in mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I refuse?” he questioned. “You—you haven't been very + friendly with me to-day, Harry.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't quarrel, you children,” cried Anna, beating eggs vigorously. + “Harmony is always friendly, too friendly. The Portier loves her.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure I said good-evening to you.” + </p> + <p> + “You usually say, 'Good-evening, Peter.'” + </p> + <p> + “And I did not?” + </p> + <p> + “You did not.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—Good-evening, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + His steady eyes met hers. In them there was a renewal of his yesterday's + promise, abasement, regret. Harmony met him with forgiveness and + restoration. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes,” said Peter humbly, “when I am in very great favor, you say, + 'Good-evening, Peter, dear.'” + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Peter, dear,” said Harmony. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + The affairs of young Stewart and Marie Jedlicka were not moving smoothly. + Having rented their apartment to the Boyers, and through Marie's frugality + and the extra month's wages at Christmas, which was Marie's annual + perquisite, being temporarily in funds the sky seemed clear enough, and + Walter Stewart started on his holiday with a comfortable sense of + financial security. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer, shown over the flat by Stewart during Marie's temporary exile + in the apartment across the hall, was captivated by the comfort of the + little suite and by its order. Her housewifely mind, restless with long + inactivity in a pension, seized on the bright pans of Marie's kitchen and + the promise of the brick-and-sheetiron stove. She disapproved of Stewart, + having heard strange stories of him, but there was nothing bacchanal or + suspicious about this orderly establishment. Mrs. Boyer was a placid, + motherly looking woman, torn from her church and her card club, her grown + children, her household gods of thirty years' accumulation, that “Frank” + might catch up with his profession. + </p> + <p> + She had explained it rather tremulously at home. + </p> + <p> + “Father wants to go,” she said. “You children are big enough now to be + left. He's always wanted to do it, but we couldn't go while you were + little.” + </p> + <p> + “But, mother!” expostulated the oldest girl. “When you are so afraid of + the ocean! And a year!” + </p> + <p> + “What is to be will be,” she had replied. “If I'm going to be drowned I'll + be drowned, whether it's in the sea or in a bathtub. And I'll not let + father go alone.” + </p> + <p> + Fatalism being their mother's last argument and always final, the children + gave up. They let her go. More, they prepared for her so elaborate a + wardrobe that the poor soul had had no excuse to purchase anything abroad. + She had gone through Paris looking straight ahead lest her eyes lead her + into the temptation of the shops. In Vienna she wore her home-town outfit + with determination, vaguely conscious that the women about her had more + style, were different. She priced unsuitable garments wistfully, and went + home to her trunks full of best materials that would never wear out. The + children, knowing her, had bought the best. + </p> + <p> + To this couple, then, Stewart had rented his apartment. It is hard to say + by what psychology he found their respectability so satisfactory. It was + as though his own status gained by it. He had much the same feeling about + the order and decency with which Marie managed the apartment, as if + irregularity were thus regularized. + </p> + <p> + Marie had met him once for a walk along the Graben. She had worn an + experimental touch of rouge under a veil, and fine lines were drawn under + her blue eyes, darkening them. She had looked very pretty, rather + frightened. Stewart had sent her home and had sulked for an entire + evening. + </p> + <p> + So curious a thing is the mind masculine, such an order of disorder, so + conventional its defiance of convention. Stewart breaking the law and + trying to keep the letter! + </p> + <p> + On the day they left for Semmering Marie was up at dawn. There was much to + do. The house must be left clean and shining. There must be no feminine + gewgaws to reveal to the Frau Doktor that it was not a purely masculine + establishment. At the last moment, so late that it sent her heart into her + mouth, she happened on the box of rouge hidden from Stewart's watchful + eyes. She gave it to the milk girl. + </p> + <p> + Finally she folded her meager wardrobe and placed it in the Herr Doktor's + American trunk: a marvel, that trunk, so firm, so heavy, bound with iron. + And with her own clothing she packed Stewart's, the dress-suit he had worn + once to the Embassy, a hat that folded, strange American shoes, and books—always + books. The Herr Doktor would study at Semmering. When all was in readiness + and Stewart was taking a final survey, Marie ran downstairs and summoned a + cab. It did not occur to her to ask him to do it. Marie's small life was + one of service, and besides there was an element in their relationship + that no one but Marie suspected, and that she hid even from herself. She + was very much in love with this indifferent American, this captious + temporary god of her domestic altar. Such a contingency had never occurred + to Stewart; but Peter, smoking gravely in the little apartment, had more + than once caught a look in Marie's eyes as she turned them on the other + man, and had surmised it. It made him uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + When the train was well under way, however, and he found no disturbing + element among the three others in the compartment, Stewart relaxed. + Semmering was a favorite resort with the American colony, but not until + later in the winter. In December there were rains in the mountains, and + low-lying clouds that invested some of the chalets in constant fog. It was + not until the middle of January that the little mountain train became + crowded with tourists, knickerbockered men with knapsacks, and jaunty + feathers in their soft hats, boys carrying ski, women with Alpine cloaks + and iron-pointed sticks. + </p> + <p> + Marie was childishly happy. It was the first real vacation of her life, + and more than that she was going to Semmering, in the very shadow of the + Raxalpe, the beloved mountain of the Viennese. + </p> + <p> + Marie had seen the Rax all her life, as it towered thirty miles or so away + above the plain. On peaceful Sundays, having climbed the cog railroad, she + had seen its white head turn rosy in the setting sun, and once when a + German tourist from Munich had handed her his fieldglass she had even made + out some of the crosses that showed where travelers had met their deaths. + Now she would be very close. If the weather were good, she might even say + a prayer in the chapel on its crest for the souls of those who had died. + It was of a marvel, truly; so far may one go when one has money and + leisure. + </p> + <p> + The small single-trucked railway carriages bumped and rattled up the + mountain sides, always rising, always winding. There were moments when the + track held to the cliffs only by gigantic fingers of steel, while far + below were peaceful valleys and pink-and-blue houses and churches with + gilded spires. There were vistas of snow-peak and avalanche shed, and + always there were tunnels. Marie, so wise in some things, was a child in + others; she slid close to Stewart in the darkness and touched him for + comfort. + </p> + <p> + “It is so dark,” she apologized, “and it frightens me, the mountain heart. + In your America, have you so great mountains?” + </p> + <p> + Stewart patted her hand, a patronizing touch that sent her blood racing. + </p> + <p> + “Much larger,” he said magnificently. “I haven't seen a hill in Europe I'd + exchange for the Rockies. And when we cross the mountains there we use + railway coaches. These toy railroads are a joke. At home we'd use 'em as + street-cars.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! I should like to see America.” + </p> + <p> + “So should I.” + </p> + <p> + The conversation was taking a dangerous trend. Mention of America was apt + to put the Herr Doktor in a bad humor or to depress him, which was even + worse. Marie, her hand still on his arm and not repulsed, became silent. + </p> + <p> + At a small way station the three Germans in the compartment left the + train. Stewart, lowering a window, bought from a boy on the platform beer + and sausages and a bag of pretzels. As the train resumed its clanking + progress they ate luncheon, drinking the beer from the bottles and slicing + the sausage with a penknife. It was a joyous trip, a red-letter day in the + girl's rather sordid if not uneventful life. The Herr Doktor was pleased + with her. He liked her hat, and when she flushed with pleasure demanded + proof that she was not rouged. Proof was forthcoming. She rubbed her + cheeks vigorously with a handkerchief and produced in triumph its + unreddened purity. + </p> + <p> + “Thou suspicious one!” she pouted. “I must take off the skin to assure + thee! When the Herr Doktor says no rouge, I use none.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a good child.” He stooped over and kissed one scarlet cheek and + then being very comfortable and the beer having made him drowsy, he put + his head in her lap and slept. + </p> + <p> + When he awakened they were still higher. The snow-peak towered above and + the valleys were dizzying! Semmering was getting near. They were + frequently in darkness; and between the tunnels were long lines of granite + avalanche sheds. The little passage of the car was full of tourists + looking down. + </p> + <p> + “We are very close, I am sure,” an American girl was saying just outside + the doorway. “See, isn't that the Kurhaus? There, it is lost again.” + </p> + <p> + The tourists in the passage were Americans and the girl who had spoken was + young and attractive. Stewart noticed them for the first time and moved to + a more decorous distance from Marie. + </p> + <p> + Marie Jedlicka took her cue and lapsed into silence, but her thoughts were + busy. Perhaps this girl was going to Semmering also and the Herr Doktor + would meet her. But that was foolish! There were other resorts besides + Semmering, and in the little villa to which they went there would be no + Americans. It was childish to worry about a girl whose back and profile + only she had seen. Also profiles were deceptive; there was the matter of + the ears. Marie's ears were small and set close to her head. If the + American Fraulein's ears stuck out or her face were only short and wide! + But no. The American Fraulein turned and glanced once swiftly into the + compartment. She was quite lovely. + </p> + <p> + Stewart thought so, too. He got up with a great show of stretching and + yawning and lounged into the passage. He did not speak to the girl; Marie + noted that with some comfort. But shortly after she saw him conversing + easily with a male member of the party. Her heart sank again. Life was + moving very fast for Marie Jedlicka that afternoon on the train. + </p> + <p> + Stewart was duly presented to the party of Americans and offered his own + cards, bowing from the waist and clicking his heels together, a German + custom he had picked up. The girl was impressed; Marie saw that. When they + drew into the station at Semmering Stewart helped the American party off + first and then came back for Marie. Less keen eyes than the little + Austrian's would have seen his nervous anxiety to escape attention, once + they were out of the train and moving toward the gate of the station. He + stopped to light a cigarette, he put down the hand-luggage and picked it + up again, as though it weighed heavily, whereas it was both small and + light. He loitered through the gate and paused to exchange a word with the + gateman. + </p> + <p> + The result was, of course, that the Americans were in a sleigh and well up + the mountainside before Stewart and Marie were seated side by side in a + straw-lined sledge, their luggage about them, a robe over their knees, and + a noisy driver high above them on the driving-seat. Stewart spoke to her + then, the first time for half an hour. + </p> + <p> + Marie found some comfort. The villas at Semmering were scattered wide over + the mountain breast, set in dense clumps of evergreens, hidden from the + roads and from each other by trees and shrubbery separated by valleys. One + might live in one part of Semmering for a month and never suspect the + existence of other parts, or wander over steep roads and paths for days + and never pass twice over the same one. The Herr Doktor might not see the + American girl again—and if he did! Did he not see American girls + wherever he went? + </p> + <p> + The sleigh climbed on. It seemed they would never stop climbing. Below in + the valley twilight already reigned, a twilight of blue shadows, of cows + with bells wandering home over frosty fields, of houses with dark faces + that opened an eye of lamplight as one looked. + </p> + <p> + Across the valley and far above—Marie pointed without words. Her + small heart was very full. Greater than she had ever dreamed it, steeper, + more beautiful, more deadly, and crowned with its sunset hue of rose was + the Rax. Even Stewart lost his look of irritation as he gazed with her. He + reached over and covered both her hands with his large one under the robe. + </p> + <p> + The sleigh climbed steadily. Marie Jedlicka, in a sort of ecstasy, leaned + back and watched the mountain; its crown faded from rose to gold, from + gold to purple with a thread of black. There was a shadow on the side that + looked like a cross. Marie stopped the sleigh at a wayside shrine, and + getting out knelt to say a prayer for the travelers who had died on the + Rax. They had taken a room at a small villa where board was cheap, and + where the guests were usually Germans of the thriftier sort from Bavaria. + Both the season and the modest character of the establishment promised + them quiet and seclusion. + </p> + <p> + To Marie the house seemed the epitome of elegance, even luxury. It clung + to a steep hillside. Their room, on the third floor, looked out from the + back of the building over the valley, which fell away almost sheer from + beneath their windows. A tiny balcony outside, with access to it by a door + from the bedroom, looked far down on the tops of tall pines. It made Marie + dizzy. + </p> + <p> + She was cheerful again and busy. The American trunk was to be unpacked and + the Herr Doktor's things put away, his shoes in rows, as he liked them, + and his shaving materials laid out on the washstand. Then there was a new + dress to put on, that she might do him credit at supper. + </p> + <p> + Stewart's bad humor had returned. He complained of the room and the draft + under the balcony door; the light was wrong for shaving. But the truth + came out at last and found Marie not unprepared. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is,” he said, “I'm not going to eat with you to-night, dear. I'm + going to the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “With the Americans?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I know a chap who went to college with the brother—with the + young man you saw.” + </p> + <p> + Marie glanced down at her gala toilet. Then she began slowly to take off + the dress, reaching behind her for a hook he had just fastened and + fighting back tears as she struggled with it. + </p> + <p> + “Now, remember, Marie, I will have no sulking.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not sulking.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you change your clothes?” + </p> + <p> + “Because the dress was for you. If you are not here I do not wish to wear + it.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart went out in a bad humor, which left him before he had walked for + five minutes in the clear mountain air. At the hotel he found the party + waiting for him, the women in evening gowns. The girl, whose name was + Anita, was bewitching in pale green. + </p> + <p> + That was a memorable night for Walter Stewart, with his own kind once more—a + perfect dinner, brisk and clever conversation, enlivened by a bit of sweet + champagne, an hour or two on the terrace afterward with the women in furs, + and stars making a jeweled crown for the Rax. + </p> + <p> + He entirely forgot Marie until he returned to the villa and opening the + door of the room found her missing. + </p> + <p> + She had not gone far. At the sound of his steps she moved on the balcony + and came in slowly. She was pale and pinched with cold, but she was wise + with the wisdom of her kind. She smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Didst thou have a fine evening?” + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry if I was unpleasant. I was tired, now I am rested.” + </p> + <p> + “Good, little Marie!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + The card in the American Doctors' Club brought a response finally. It was + just in time. Harmony's funds were low, and the Frau Professor Bergmeister + had gone to St. Moritz for the winter. She regretted the English lessons, + but there were always English at St. Moritz and it cost nothing to talk + with them. Before she left she made Harmony a present. “For Christmas,” + she explained. It was a glass pin-tray, decorated beneath with labels from + the Herr Professor's cigars and in the center a picture of the Emperor. + </p> + <p> + The response came in this wise. Harmony struggling home against an east + wind and holding the pin-tray and her violin case, opened the old garden + gate by the simple expedient of leaning against it. It flew back + violently, almost overthrowing a stout woman in process of egress down the + walk. The stout woman was Mrs. Boyer, clad as usual in the best broadcloth + and wearing her old sable cape, made over according to her oldest + daughter's ideas into a staid stole and muff. The muff lay on the path now + and Mrs. Boyer was gasping for breath. + </p> + <p> + “I'm so sorry!” Harmony exclaimed. “It was stupid of me; but the wind—Is + this your muff?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer took the muff coldly. From its depths she proceeded to extract + a handkerchief and with the handkerchief she brushed down the broadcloth. + Harmony stood apologetically by. It is explanatory of Mrs. Boyer's face, + attitude, and costume that the girl addressed her in English. + </p> + <p> + “I backed in,” she explained. “So few people come, and no Americans.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer, having finished her brushing and responded to this humble + apology in her own tongue, condescended to look at Harmony. + </p> + <p> + “It really is no matter,” she said, still coolly but with indications of + thawing. “I am only glad it did not strike my nose. I dare say it would + have, but I was looking up to see if it were going to snow.” Here she saw + the violin case and became almost affable. + </p> + <p> + “There was a card in the Doctors' Club, and I called—” She + hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “I am Miss Wells. The card is mine.” + </p> + <p> + “One of the women here has a small boy who wishes to take violin lessons + and I offered to come. The mother is very busy.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Will you come in? I can make you a cup of tea and we can talk + about it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer was very willing, although she had doubts about the tea. She + had had no good tea since she had left England, and was inclined to + suspect all of it. + </p> + <p> + They went in together, Harmony chatting gayly as she ran ahead, explaining + this bit of the old staircase, that walled-up door, here an ancient bit of + furniture not considered worthy of salvage, there a closed and locked + room, home of ghosts and legends. To Harmony this elderly woman, climbing + slowly behind her, was a bit of home. There had been many such in her + life; women no longer young, friends of her mother's who were friends of + hers; women to whom she had been wont to pay the courtesy of a potted + hyacinth at Easter or a wreath at Christmas or a bit of custard during an + illness. She had missed them all cruelly, as she had missed many things—her + mother, her church, her small gayeties. She had thought at first that Frau + Professor Bergmeister might allay her longing for these comfortable, + middle-aged, placid-eyed friends of hers. But the Frau Professor + Bergmeister had proved to be a frivolous and garrulous old woman, who + substituted ease for comfort, and who burned a candle on the name-day of + her first husband while her second was safely out of the house. + </p> + <p> + So it was with something of excitement that Harmony led the way up the + stairs and into the salon of Maria Theresa. + </p> + <p> + Peter was there. He was sitting with his back to the door, busily engaged + in polishing the horns of the deer. Whatever scruples Harmony had had + about the horns, Peter had none whatever, save to get them safely out of + the place and to the hospital. So Peter was polishing the horns. Harmony + had not expected to find him home, and paused, rather startled. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I didn't know you were home.” + </p> + <p> + Peter spoke without turning. + </p> + <p> + “Try to bear up under it,” he said. “I'm home and hungry, sweetheart!” + </p> + <p> + “Peter, please!” + </p> + <p> + Peter turned at that and rose instantly. It was rather dark in the salon + and he did not immediately recognize Mrs. Boyer. But that keen-eyed lady + had known him before he turned, had taken in the domesticity of the scene + and Peter's part in it, and had drawn the swift conclusion of the pure of + heart. + </p> + <p> + “I'll come again,” she said hurriedly. “I—I must really get home. + Dr. Boyer will be there, and wondering—” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Boyer!” Peter knew her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dr. Byrne, isn't it? How unexpected to find you here!” + </p> + <p> + “I live here.” + </p> + <p> + “So I surmised.” + </p> + <p> + “Three of us,” said Peter. “You know Anna Gates, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid not. Really I—” + </p> + <p> + Peter was determined to explain. His very eagerness was almost damning. + </p> + <p> + “She and Miss Wells are keeping house here and have kindly taken me in as + a boarder. Please sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony found nothing strange in the situation and was frankly puzzled at + Peter. The fact that there was anything unusual in two single women and + one unmarried man, unrelated and comparative strangers, setting up + housekeeping together had never occurred to her. Many a single woman whom + she knew at home took a gentleman into the house as a roomer, and + thereafter referred to him as “he” and spent hours airing the curtains of + smoke and even, as “he” became a member of the family, in sewing on his + buttons. There was nothing indecorous about such an arrangement; merely a + concession to economic pressure. + </p> + <p> + She made tea, taking off her jacket and gloves to do it, but bustling + about cheerfully, with her hat rather awry and her cheeks flushed with + excitement and hope. Just now, when the Frau Professor had gone, the + prospect of a music pupil meant everything. An American child, too! Fond + as Harmony was of children, the sedate and dignified youngsters who walked + the parks daily with a governess, or sat with folded hands and fixed eyes + through hours of heavy music at the opera, rather daunted her. They were + never alone, those Austrian children—always under surveillance, + always restrained, always prepared to kiss the hand of whatever relative + might be near and to take themselves of to anywhere so it were somewhere + else. + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad you are going to talk to me about an American child,” said + Harmony, bringing in the tea. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Boyer was not so sure she was going to talk about the American + child. She was not sure of anything, except that the household looked most + irregular, and that Peter Byrne was trying to cover a difficult situation + with much conversation. He was almost glib, was Peter. The tea was good; + that was one thing. + </p> + <p> + She sat back with her muff on her knee, having refused the concession of + putting it on a chair as savoring too much of acceptance if not approval, + and sipped her tea out of a spoon as becomes a tea-lover. Peter, who + loathed tea, lounged about the room, clearly in the way, but fearful to + leave Harmony alone with her. She was quite likely, at the first + opportunity, to read her a lesson on the conventions, if nothing worse; to + upset the delicate balance of the little household he was guarding. So he + stayed, praying for Anna to come and bear out his story, while Harmony + toyed with her spoon and waited for some mention of the lessons. None + came. Mrs. Boyer, having finished her tea, rose and put down her cup. + </p> + <p> + “That was very refreshing,” she said. “Where shall I find the street-car? + I walked out, but it is late.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take you to the car.” Peter picked up his old hat. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I am always lost in this wretched town. I give the conductors + double tips to put me down where I want to go; but how can they when it is + the wrong car?” She bowed to Harmony without shaking hands. “Thank you for + the tea. It was really good. Where do you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “There is a tea-shop a door or two from the Grand Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “I must remember that. Thank you again. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Not a word about the lessons or the American child! + </p> + <p> + “You said something about my card in the Doctors' Club—” + </p> + <p> + Something wistful in the girl's eyes caught and held Mrs. Boyer. + </p> + <p> + After all she was the mother of daughters. She held out her hand and her + voice was not so hard. + </p> + <p> + “That will have to wait until another time. I have made a social visit and + we'll not spoil it with business.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “I really think the boy's mother must attend to that herself. But I shall + tell her where to find you, and”—here she glanced at Peter—“all + about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Harmony gratefully. + </p> + <p> + Peter had no finesse. He escorted Mrs. Boyer across the yard and through + the gate with hardly a word. With the gate closed behind them he turned + and faced her:— + </p> + <p> + “You are going away with a wrong impression, Mrs. Boyer.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer had been thinking hard as she crossed the yard. The result was + a resolution to give Peter a piece of her mind. She drew her ample + proportions into a dignity that was almost majesty. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I can understand why you think as you do. It is quite without + foundation.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of that.” There was no conviction in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” went on Peter, humbling himself for Harmony's sake, “I + suppose it has been rather unconventional, but Dr. Gates is not a young + woman by any means, and she takes very good care of Miss Wells. There were + reasons why this seemed the best thing to do. Miss Wells was alone and—” + </p> + <p> + “There is a Dr. Gates?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. If you will come back and wait she'll be along very soon.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer was convinced and defrauded in one breath; convinced that there + might be a Dr. Gates, but equally convinced that the situation was + anomalous and certainly suspicious; defrauded in that she had lost the + anticipated pleasure of giving Peter a piece of her mind. She walked along + beside him without speaking until they reached the street-car line. Then + she turned. + </p> + <p> + “You called her—you spoke to her very affectionately, young man,” + she accused him. + </p> + <p> + Peter smiled. The car was close. Some imp of recklessness, some perversion + of humor seized him. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mrs. Boyer,” he said, “that was in jest purely. Besides, I did + not know that you were there!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer was a literal person without humor. It was outraged American + womanhood incarnate that got into the street-car and settled its + broadcloth of the best quality indignantly on the cane seat. It was + outraged American womanhood that flung open the door of Marie Jedlicka's + flat, and stalking into Marie Jedlicka's sitting room confronted her + husband as he read a month-old newspaper from home. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever hear of a woman doctor named Gates?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + Boyer was not unaccustomed to such verbal attacks. He had learned to meet + domestic broadsides with a shield of impenetrable good humor, or at the + most with a return fire of mild sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + “I never hear of a woman doctor if it can be avoided.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Gates—Anna Gates?” + </p> + <p> + “There are a number here. I meet them in the hospital, but I don't know + their names.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does Peter Byrne live?” + </p> + <p> + “In a pension, I believe, my dear. Are we going to have anything to eat or + do we sup of Peter Byrne?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer made no immediate reply. She repaired to the bedroom of Marie + Jedlicka, and placed her hat, coat and furs on one of the beds with the + crocheted coverlets. It is a curious thing about rooms. There was no + change in the bedroom apparent to the eye, save that for Marie's tiny + slippers at the foot of the wardrobe there were Mrs. Boyer's substantial + house shoes. But in some indefinable way the room had changed. About it + hung an atmosphere of solid respectability, of impeccable purity that + soothed Mrs. Boyer's ruffled virtue into peace. Is it any wonder that + there is a theory to the effect that things take on the essential + qualities of people who use them, and that we are haunted by things, not + people? That when grandfather's wraith is seen in his old armchair it is + the chair that produces it, while grandfather himself serenely haunts the + shades of some vast wilderness of departed spirits? + </p> + <p> + Not that Mrs. Boyer troubled herself about such things. She was + exceedingly orthodox, even in the matter of a hereafter, where the most + orthodox are apt to stretch a point, finding no attraction whatever in the + thing they are asked to believe. Mrs. Boyer, who would have regarded it as + heterodox to substitute any other instrument for the harp of her + expectation, tied on her gingham apron before Marie Jedlicka's mirror, and + thought of Harmony and of the girls at home. + </p> + <p> + She told her husband over the supper-table and found him less shocked than + she had expected. + </p> + <p> + “It's not your affair or mine,” he said. “It's Byrne's business.” + </p> + <p> + “Think of the girl!” + </p> + <p> + “Even if you are right it's rather late, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “You could tell him what you think of him.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Boyer sighed over a cup of very excellent coffee. Much living with a + representative male had never taught his wife the reserves among members + of the sex masculine. + </p> + <p> + “I might, but I don't intend to,” he said. “And if you listen to me you'll + keep the thing to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take precious good care that the girl gets no pupils,” snapped Mrs. + Boyer. And she did with great thoroughness. + </p> + <p> + We trace a life by its scars. Destiny, marching on by a thousand painful + steps, had left its usual mark, a footprint on a naked soul. The soul was + Harmony's; the foot—was it not encased at that moment in Mrs. + Boyer's comfortable house shoes? + </p> + <p> + Anna was very late that night. Peter, having put Mrs. Boyer on her car, + went back quickly. He had come out without his overcoat, and with the + sunset a bitter wind had risen, but he was too indignant to be cold. He + ran up the staircase, hearing on all sides the creaking and banging with + which the old house resented a gale, and burst into the salon of Maria + Theresa. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was sitting sidewise in a chair by the tea-table with her face + hidden against its worn red velvet. She did not look up when he entered. + Peter went over and put a hand on her shoulder. She quivered under it and + he took it away. + </p> + <p> + “Crying?” + </p> + <p> + “A little,” very smothered. “Just dis-disappointment. Don't mind me, + Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean about the pupil?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony sat up and looked at him. She still wore her hat, now more than + ever askew, and some of the dye from the velvet had stained her cheek. She + looked rather hectic, very lovely. + </p> + <p> + “Why did she change so when she saw you?” + </p> + <p> + Peter hesitated. Afterward he thought of a dozen things he might have + said, safe things. Not one came to him. + </p> + <p> + “She—she is an evil-thinking old woman, Harry,” he said gravely. + </p> + <p> + “She did not approve of the way we are living here, is that it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But Anna?” + </p> + <p> + “She did not believe there was an Anna. Not that it matters,” he added + hastily. “I'll make Anna go to her and explain. It's her infernal jumping + to a conclusion that makes me crazy.” + </p> + <p> + “She will talk, Peter. I am frightened.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take Anna to-night and we'll go to Boyer's. I'll make that woman get + down on her knees to you. I'll—” + </p> + <p> + “You'll make bad very much worse,” said Harmony dejectedly. “When a thing + has to be explained it does no good to explain it.” + </p> + <p> + The salon was growing dark. Peter was very close to her again. As in the + dusky kitchen only a few days before, he felt the compelling influence of + her nearness. He wanted, as he had never wanted anything in his life + before, to take her in his arms, to hold her close and bid defiance to + evil tongues. He was afraid of himself. To gain a moment he put a chair + between them and stood, strong hands gripping its back, looking down at + her. + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing we could do.” + </p> + <p> + “What, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “We could marry. If you cared for me even a little it—it might not + be so bad for you.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am not in love with you. I care for you, of course, but—not + that way, Peter. And I do not wish to marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even if I wish it very much?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “If you are thinking of my future—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm thinking for both of us. And although just now you think you care a + little for me, you do not care enough, Peter. You are lonely and I am the + only person you see much, so you think you want to marry me. You don't + really. You want to help me.” + </p> + <p> + Few motives are unmixed. Poor Peter, thus accused, could not deny his + altruism. + </p> + <p> + And in the face of his poverty and the little he could offer, compared + with what she must lose, he did not urge what was the compelling motive + after all, his need of her. + </p> + <p> + “It would be a rotten match for you,” he agreed. “I only thought, perhaps—You + are right, of course; you ought not to marry.” + </p> + <p> + “And what about you?” + </p> + <p> + “I ought not, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony rose, smiling a little. + </p> + <p> + “Then that's settled. And for goodness' sake, Peter, stop proposing to me + every time things go wrong.” Her voice changed, grew grave and older, much + older than Peter's. “We must not marry, either of us, Peter. Anna is + right. There might be an excuse if we were very much in love: but we are + not. And loneliness is not a reason.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very lonely,” said Peter wistfully. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + Peter took the polished horns to the hospital the next morning and + approached Jimmy with his hands behind him and an atmosphere of mystery + that enshrouded him like a cloak. Jimmy, having had a good night and + having taken the morning's medicine without argument, had been allowed up + in a roller chair. It struck Peter with a pang that the boy looked more + frail day by day, more transparent. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought you,” said Peter gravely, “the cod-liver oil.” + </p> + <p> + “I've had it!” + </p> + <p> + “Then guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Dad's letter?” + </p> + <p> + “You've just had one. Don't be a piggy.” + </p> + <p> + “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” + </p> + <p> + “Vegetable,” said Peter shamelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Soft or hard!” + </p> + <p> + “Soft.” + </p> + <p> + This was plainly a disappointment. A pair of horns might be vegetable; + they could hardly be soft. + </p> + <p> + “A kitten?” + </p> + <p> + “A kitten is not vegetable, James.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. A bowl of gelatin from Harry!” For by this time Harmony was his + very good friend, admitted to the Jimmy club, which consisted of Nurse + Elisabet, the Dozent with the red beard, Anna and Peter, and of course the + sentry, who did not know that he belonged. + </p> + <p> + “Gelatin, to be sure,” replied Peter, and produced the horns. + </p> + <p> + It was a joyous moment in the long low ward, with its triple row of beds, + its barred windows, its clean, uneven old floor. As if to add a touch of + completeness the sentry outside, peering in, saw the wheeled chair with + its occupant, and celebrated this advance along the road to recovery by + placing on the window-ledge a wooden replica of himself, bayonet and all, + carved from a bit of cigar box. + </p> + <p> + “Everybody is very nice to me,” said Jimmy contentedly. “When my father + comes back I shall tell him. He is very fond of people who are kind to me. + There was a woman on the ship—What is bulging your pocket, Peter?” + </p> + <p> + “My handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + “That is not where you mostly carry your handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was injured. He scowled ferociously at being doubted and stood up + before the wheeled chair to be searched. The ward watched joyously, while + from pocket after pocket of Peter's old gray suit came Jimmy's salvage—two + nuts, a packet of figs, a postcard that represented a stout colonel of + hussars on his back on a frozen lake, with a private soldier waiting to go + through the various salutations due his rank before assisting him. A gala + day, indeed, if one could forget the grave in the little mountain town + with only a name on the cross at its head, and if one did not notice that + the boy was thinner than ever, that his hands soon tired of playing and + lay in his lap, that Nurse Elisabet, who was much inured to death and + lived her days with tragedy, caught him to her almost fiercely as she + lifted him back from the chair into the smooth white bed. + </p> + <p> + He fell asleep with Peter's arm under his head and the horns of the deer + beside him. On the bedside stand stood the wooden sentry, keeping guard. + As Peter drew his arm away he became aware of the Nurse Elisabet beckoning + to him from a door at the end of the ward Peter left the sentinel on guard + and tiptoed down the room. Just outside, round a corner, was the Dozent's + laboratory, and beyond the tiny closet where he slept, where on a stand + was the photograph of the lady he would marry when he had become a + professor and required no one's consent. + </p> + <p> + The Dozent was waiting for Peter. In the amiable conspiracy which kept the + boy happy he was arch-plotter. His familiarity with Austrian intrigue had + made him invaluable. He it was who had originated the idea of making Jimmy + responsible for the order of the ward, so that a burly Trager quarreling + over his daily tobacco with the nurse in charge, or brawling over his soup + with another patient, was likely to be hailed in a thin soprano, and to + stand, grinning sheepishly, while Jimmy, in mixed English and German, + restored the decorum of the ward. They were a quarrelsome lot, the + convalescents. Jimmy was so busy some days settling disputes and awarding + decisions that he slept almost all night. This was as it should be. + </p> + <p> + The Dozent waited for Peter. His red beard twitched and his white coat, + stained from the laboratory table, looked quite villainous. He held out a + letter. + </p> + <p> + “This has come for the child,” he said in quite good English. He was + obliged to speak English. Day by day he taught in the clinics Americans + who scorned his native tongue, and who brought him the money with which + some day he would marry. He liked the English language; he liked Americans + because they learned quickly. He held out an envelope with a black border + and Peter took it. + </p> + <p> + “From Paris!” he said. “Who in the world—I suppose I'd better open + it.” + </p> + <p> + “So I thought. It appears a letter of—how you say it? Ah, yes, + condolence.” + </p> + <p> + Peter opened the letter and read it. Then without a word he gave it open + to the Dozent. There was silence in the laboratory while the Dozent read + it, silence except for his canary, which was chipping at a lump of sugar. + Peter's face was very sober. + </p> + <p> + “So. A mother! You knew nothing of a mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Something from the papers I found. She left when the boy was a baby—went + on the stage, I think. He has no recollection of her, which is a good + thing. She seems to have been a bad lot.” + </p> + <p> + “She comes to take him away. That is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is impossible,” said Peter savagely. “She's not going to see + the child if I can help it. She left because—she's the boy's mother, + but that's the best you can say of her. This letter—Well, you've + read it.” + </p> + <p> + “She is as a stranger to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. She will come in mourning—look at that black border—and + tell him his father is dead, and kill him. I know the type.” + </p> + <p> + The canary chipped at his sugar; the red beard of the Dozent twitched, as + does the beard of one who plots. Peter re-read the gushing letter in his + hand and thought fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “She is on her way here,” said the Dozent. “That is bad. Paris to Wien is + two days and a night. She may hourly arrive.” + </p> + <p> + “We might send him away—to another hospital.” + </p> + <p> + The Dozent shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Had I a home—” he said, and glanced through the door to the + portrait on the stand. “It would be possible to hide the boy, at least for + a time. In the interval the mother might be watched, and if she proved a + fit person the boy could be given to her. It is, of course, an affair of + police.” + </p> + <p> + This gave Peter pause. He had no money for fines, no time for + imprisonment, and he shared the common horror of the great jail. He read + the letter again, and tried to read into the lines Jimmy's mother, and + failed. He glanced into the ward. Still Jimmy slept. A burly convalescent, + with a saber cut from temple to ear and the general appearance of an + assassin, had stopped beside the bed and was drawing up the blanket round + the small shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I can give orders that the woman be not admitted to-day,” said the + Dozent. “That gives us a few hours. She will go to the police, and + to-morrow she will be admitted. In the mean time—” + </p> + <p> + “In the mean time,” Peter replied, “I'll try to think of something. If I + thought she could be warned and would leave him here—” + </p> + <p> + “She will not. She will buy him garments and she will travel with him + through the Riviera and to Nice. She says Nice. She wishes to be there for + carnival, and the boy will die.” + </p> + <p> + Peter took the letter and went home. He rode, that he might read it again + in the bus. But no scrap of comfort could he get from it. It spoke of the + dead father coldly, and the father had been the boy's idol. No good woman + could have been so heartless. It offered the boy a seat in one of the + least reputable of the Paris theaters to hear his mother sing. And in the + envelope, overlooked before, Peter found a cutting from a French + newspaper, a picture of the music-hall type that made him groan. It was + indorsed “Mamma.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony had had a busy morning. First she had put her house in order, + working deftly, her pretty hair pinned up in a towel—all in order + but Peter's room. That was to have a special cleaning later. Next, still + with her hair tied up, she had spent two hours with her violin, standing + very close to the stove to save fuel and keep her fingers warm. She played + well that morning: even her own critical ears were satisfied, and the + Portier, repairing a window lock in an empty room below, was entranced. He + sat on the window sill in the biting cold and listened. Many music + students had lived in the apartment with the great salon; there had been + much music of one sort and another, but none like this. + </p> + <p> + “She tears my heart from my bosom,” muttered the Portier, sighing, and + almost swallowed a screw that he held in his teeth. + </p> + <p> + After the practicing Harmony cleaned Peter's room. She felt very tender + toward Peter that day. The hurt left by Mrs. Boyer's visit had died away, + but there remained a clear vision of Peter standing behind the chair and + offering himself humbly in marriage, so that a bad situation might be made + better. And as with a man tenderness expresses itself in the giving of + gifts, so with a woman it means giving of service. Harmony cleaned Peter's + room. + </p> + <p> + It was really rather tidy. Peter's few belongings did not spread to any + extent and years of bachelorhood had taught him the rudiments of order. + Harmony took the covers from washstand and dressing table and washed and + ironed them. She cleaned Peter's worn brushes and brought a pincushion of + her own for his one extra scarfpin. Finally she brought her own steamer + rug and folded it across the foot of the bed. There was no stove in the + room; it had been Harmony's room once, and she knew to the full how cold + it could be. + </p> + <p> + Having made all comfortable for the outer man she prepared for the inner. + She was in the kitchen, still with her hair tied up, when Anna came home. + </p> + <p> + Anna was preoccupied. Instead of her cheery greeting she came somberly + back to the kitchen, a letter in her hand. History was making fast that + day. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Harry,” she said. “I'm going to take a bite and hurry off. Don't + bother, I'll attend to myself.” She stuffed the letter in her belt and got + a plate from a shelf. “How pretty you look with your head tied up! If + stupid Peter saw you now he would fall in love with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall take it off. Peter must be saved!” + </p> + <p> + Anna sat down at the tiny table and drank her tea. She felt rather better + after the tea. Harmony, having taken the towel off, was busy over the + brick stove. There was nothing said for a moment. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “I am out of patience with Peter,” said Anna. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he hasn't fallen in love with you. Where are his eyes?” + </p> + <p> + “Please, Anna!” + </p> + <p> + “It's better as it is, no doubt, for both of you. But it's superhuman of + Peter. I wonder—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I'll not tell you what I wonder.” + </p> + <p> + And Harmony, rather afraid of Anna's frank speech, did not insist. + </p> + <p> + As she drank her tea and made a pretense at eating, Anna's thoughts + wandered from Peter to Harmony to the letter in her belt and back again to + Peter and Harmony. For some time she had been suspicious of Peter. From + her dozen years of advantage in age and experience she looked down on + Peter's thirty years of youth, and thought she knew something that Peter + himself did not suspect. Peter being unintrospective, Anna did his + heart-searching for him. She believed he was madly in love with Harmony + and did not himself suspect it. As she watched the girl over her teacup, + revealing herself in a thousand unposed gestures of youth and grace, a + thousand lovelinesses, something of the responsibility she and Peter had + assumed came over her. She sighed and felt for her letter. + </p> + <p> + “I've had rather bad news,” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “From home?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. My father—did you know I have a father?” + </p> + <p> + “You hadn't spoken of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I never do. As a father he hasn't amounted to much. But he's very ill, + and—I 've a conscience.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony turned a startled face to her. + </p> + <p> + “You are not going back to America?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, not now, anyhow. If I become hag ridden with remorse and do go + I'll find some one to take my place. Don't worry.” + </p> + <p> + The lunch was a silent meal. Anna was hurrying off as Peter came in, and + there was no time to discuss Peter's new complication with her. Harmony + and Peter ate together, Harmony rather silent. Anna's unfortunate comment + about Peter had made her constrained. After the meal Peter, pipe in mouth, + carried the dishes to the kitchen, and there it was that he gave her the + letter. What Peter's slower mind had been a perceptible time in grasping + Harmony comprehended at once—and not only the situation, but its + solution. + </p> + <p> + “Don't let her have him!” she said, putting down the letter. “Bring him + here. Oh, Peter, how good we must be to him!” + </p> + <p> + And that after all was how the thing was settled. So simple, so obvious + was it that these three expatriates, these waifs and estrays, banded + together against a common poverty, a common loneliness, should share + without question whatever was theirs to divide. Peter and Anna gave + cheerfully of their substance, Harmony of her labor, that a small boy + should be saved a tragic knowledge until he was well enough to bear it, or + until, if God so willed, he might learn it himself without pain. + </p> + <p> + The friendly sentry on duty again that night proved singularly blind. Thus + it happened that, although the night was clear when the twin dials of the + Votivkirche showed nine o'clock, he did not notice a cab that halted + across the street from the hospital. + </p> + <p> + Still more strange that, although Peter passed within a dozen feet of him, + carrying a wriggling and excited figure wrapped in a blanket and insisting + on uncovering its feet, the sentry was able the next day to say that he + had observed such a person carrying a bundle, but that it was a short + stocky person, quite lame, and that the bundle was undoubtedly clothing + going to the laundry. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps—it is just possible—the sentry had his suspicions. It + is undeniable that as Jimmy in the cab on Peter's knee, with Peter's arm + close about him, looked back at the hospital, the sentry was going through + the manual of arms very solemnly under the stars and facing toward the + carriage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + For two days at Semmering it rained. The Raxalpe and the Schneeberg sulked + behind walls of mist. From the little balcony of the Pension Waldheim one + looked out over a sea of cloud, pierced here and there by islands that + were crags or by the tops of sunken masts that were evergreen trees. The + roads were masses of slippery mud, up which the horses steamed and + sweated. The gray cloud fog hung over everything; the barking of a dog + loomed out of it near at hand where no dog was to be seen. Children cried + and wild birds squawked; one saw them not. + </p> + <p> + During the second night a landslide occurred on the side of the mountain + with a rumble like the noise of fifty trains. In the morning, the rain + clouds lifting for a moment, Marie saw the narrow yellow line of the slip. + </p> + <p> + Everything was saturated with moisture. It did no good to close the heavy + wooden shutters at night: in the morning the air of the room was sticky + and clothing was moist to the touch. Stewart, confined to the house, grew + irritable. + </p> + <p> + Marie watched him anxiously. She knew quite well by what slender tenure + she held her man. They had nothing in common, neither speech nor thought. + And the little Marie's love for Stewart, grown to be a part of her, was + largely maternal. She held him by mothering him, by keeping him + comfortable, not by a great reciprocal passion that might in time have + brought him to her in chains. + </p> + <p> + And now he was uncomfortable. He chafed against the confinement; he + resented the food, the weather. Even Marie's content at her unusual + leisure irked him. He accused her of purring like a cat by the fire, and + stamped out more than once, only to be driven in by the curious + thunderstorms of early Alpine winter. + </p> + <p> + On the night of the second day the weather changed. Marie, awakening + early, stepped out on to the balcony and closed the door carefully behind + her. A new world lay beneath her, a marvel of glittering branches, of + white plain far below; the snowy mane of the Raxalpe was become a garment. + And from behind the villa came the cheerful sound of sleigh-bells, of + horses' feet on crisp snow, of runners sliding easily along frozen roads. + Even the barking of the dog in the next yard had ceased rumbling and + become sharp staccato. + </p> + <p> + The balcony extended round the corner of the house. Marie, eagerly + discovering her new world, peered about, and seeing no one near ventured + so far. The road was in view, and a small girl on ski was struggling to + prevent a collision between two plump feet. Even as Marie saw her the + inevitable happened and she went headlong into a drift. A governess who + had been kneeling before a shrine by the road hastily crossed herself and + ran to the rescue. + </p> + <p> + It was a marvelous morning, a day of days. The governess and the child + went on out of vision. Marie stood still, looking at the shrine. A drift + had piled about its foot, where the governess had placed a bunch of Alpine + flowers. Down on her knees on the balcony went the little Marie, + regardless of the snow, and prayed to the shrine of the Virgin below—for + what? For forgiveness? For a better life? Not at all. She prayed that the + heels of the American girl would keep her in out of the snow. + </p> + <p> + The prayer of the wicked availeth nothing; even the godly at times must + suffer disappointment. And when one prays of heels, who can know of the + yearning back of the praying? Marie, rising and dusting her chilled knees, + saw the party of Americans on the road, clad in stout boots and swinging + along gayly. Marie shrugged her shoulders resignedly. She should have gone + to the shrine itself; a balcony was not a holy place. But one thing she + determined—the Americans went toward the Sonnwendstein. She would + advise against the Sonnwendstein for that day. + </p> + <p> + Marie's day of days had begun wrong after all. For Stewart rose with the + Sonnwendstein in his mind, and no suggestion of Marie's that in another + day a path would be broken had any effect on him. He was eager to be off, + committed the extravagance of ordering an egg apiece for breakfast, and + finally proclaimed that if Marie feared the climb he would go alone. + </p> + <p> + Marie made many delays: she dressed slowly, and must run back to see if + the balcony door was securely closed. At a little shop where they stopped + to buy mountain sticks she must purchase postcards and send them at once. + Stewart was fairly patient: air and exercise were having their effect. + </p> + <p> + It was eleven o'clock when, having crossed the valley, they commenced to + mount the slope of the Sonnwendstein. The climb was easy; the road wound + back and forward on itself so that one ascended with hardly an effort. + Stewart gave Marie a hand here and there, and even paused to let her sit + on a boulder and rest. The snow was not heavy; he showed her the + footprints of a party that had gone ahead, and to amuse her tried to count + the number of people. When he found it was five he grew thoughtful. There + were five in Anita's party. Thanks to Marie's delays they met the + Americans coming down. The meeting was a short one: the party went on + down, gayly talking. Marie and Stewart climbed silently. Marie's day was + spoiled; Stewart had promised to dine at the hotel. + </p> + <p> + Even the view at the tourist house did not restore Marie's fallen spirits. + What were the Vienna plain and the Styrian Alps to her, with this + impatient and frowning man beside her consulting his watch and computing + the time until he might see the American again? What was prayer, if this + were its answer? + </p> + <p> + They descended rapidly, Stewart always in the lead and setting a pace that + Marie struggled in vain to meet. To her tentative and breathless remarks + he made brief answer, and only once in all that time did he volunteer a + remark. They had reached the Hotel Erzherzog in the valley. The hotel was + still closed, and Marie, panting, sat down on an edge of the terrace. + </p> + <p> + “We have been very foolish,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Being seen together like that.” + </p> + <p> + “But why? Could you not walk with any woman?” + </p> + <p> + “It's not that,” said Stewart hastily. “I suppose once does not matter. + But we can't be seen together all the time.” + </p> + <p> + Marie turned white. The time had gone by when an incident of the sort + could have been met with scorn or with threats; things had changed for + Marie Jedlicka since the day Peter had refused to introduce her to + Harmony. Then it had been vanity; now it was life itself. + </p> + <p> + “What you mean,” she said with pale lips, “is that we must not be seen + together at all. Must I—do you wish me to remain a prisoner while + you—” she choked. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake,” he broke out brutally, “don't make a scene. There are + men cutting ice over there. Of course you are not a prisoner. You may go + where you like.” + </p> + <p> + Marie rose and picked up her muff. + </p> + <p> + Marie's sordid little tragedy played itself out in Semmering. Stewart + neglected her almost completely; he took fewer and fewer meals at the + villa. In two weeks he spent one evening with the girl, and was so + irritable that she went to bed crying. The little mountain resort was + filling up; there were more and more Americans. Christmas was drawing near + and a dozen or so American doctors came up, bringing their families for + the holidays. It was difficult to enter a shop without encountering some + of them. To add to the difficulty, the party at the hotel, finding it + crowded there, decided to go into a pension and suggested moving to the + Waldheim. + </p> + <p> + Stewart himself was wretchedly uncomfortable. Marie's tragedy was his + predicament. He disliked himself very cordially, loathing himself and his + situation with the new-born humility of the lover. For Stewart was in love + for the first time in his life. Marie knew it. She had not lived with him + for months without knowing his every thought, every mood. She grew bitter + and hard those days, sitting alone by the green stove in the Pension + Waldheim, or leaning, elbows on the rail, looking from the balcony over + the valley far below. Bitter and hard, that is, during his absences; he + had but to enter the room and her rage died, to be replaced with yearning + and little, shy, tentative advances that he only tolerated. Wild thoughts + came to Marie, especially at night, when the stars made a crown over the + Rax, and in the hotel an orchestra played, while people dined and laughed + and loved. + </p> + <p> + She grew obstinate, too. When in his desperation Stewart suggested that + they go back to Vienna she openly scoffed. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she demanded. “That you may come back here to her, leaving me + there?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear girl,” he flung back exasperated, “this affair was not a + permanent one. You knew that at the start.” + </p> + <p> + “You have taken me away from my work. I have two months' vacation. It is + but one month.” + </p> + <p> + “Go back and let me pay—” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + In pursuance of the plan to leave the hotel the American party came to see + the Waldheim, and catastrophe almost ensued. Luckily Marie was on the + balcony when the landlady flung open the door, and announced it as + Stewart's apartment. But Stewart had a bad five minutes and took it out, + manlike, on the girl. + </p> + <p> + Stewart had another reason for not wishing to leave Semmering. Anita was + beautiful, a bit of a coquette, too; as are most pretty women. And Stewart + was not alone in his devotion. A member of the party, a New Yorker named + Adam, was much in love with the girl and indifferent who knew it. Stewart + detested him. + </p> + <p> + In his despair Stewart wrote to Peter Byrne. It was characteristic of + Peter that, however indifferent people might be in prosperity, they always + turned to him in trouble. Stewart's letter concluded:— + </p> + <p> + “I have made out a poor case for myself; but I'm in a hole, as you can + see. I would like to chuck everything here and sail for home with these + people who go in January. But, confound it, Byrne, what am I to do with + Marie? And that brings me to what I 've been wanting to say all along, and + haven't had the courage to. Marie likes you and you rather liked her, + didn't you? You could talk her into reason if anybody could. Now that you + know how things are, can't you come up over Sunday? It's asking a lot, and + I know it; but things are pretty bad.” + </p> + <p> + Peter received the letter on the morning of the day before Christmas. He + read it several times and, recalling the look he had seen more than once + in Marie Jedlicka's eyes, he knew that things were very bad, indeed. + </p> + <p> + But Peter was a man of family in those days, and Christmas is a family + festival not to be lightly ignored. He wired to Stewart that he would come + up as soon as possible after Christmas. Then, because of the look in + Marie's eyes and because he feared for her a sad Christmas, full of + heartaches and God knows what loneliness, he bought her a most hideous + brooch, which he thought admirable in every way and highly ornamental and + which he could not afford at all. This he mailed, with a cheery greeting, + and feeling happier and much poorer made his way homeward. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + Christmas-Eve in the saloon of Maria Theresa! Christmas-Eve, with the + great chandelier recklessly ablaze and a pig's head with cranberry eyes + for supper! Christmas-Eve, with a two-foot tree gleaming with candles on + the stand, and beside the stand, in a huge chair, Jimmy! + </p> + <p> + It had been a busy day for Harmony. In the morning there had been shopping + and marketing, and such a temptation to be reckless, with the shops full + of ecstasies and the old flower women fairly overburdened. There had been + anxieties, too, such as the pig's head, which must be done a certain way, + and Jimmy, who must be left with the Portier's wife as nurse while all of + them went to the hospital. The house revolved around Jimmy now, Jimmy, who + seemed the better for the moving, and whose mother as yet had failed to + materialize. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon Harmony played at the hospital. Peter took her as the + early twilight was falling in through the gate where the sentry kept guard + and so to the great courtyard. In this grim playground men wandered about, + smoking their daily allowance of tobacco and moving to keep warm, + offscourings of the barracks, derelicts of the slums, with here and there + an honest citizen lamenting a Christmas away from home. The hospital was + always pathetic to Harmony; on this Christmas-Eve she found it harrowing. + Its very size shocked her, that there should be so much suffering, so much + that was appalling, frightful, insupportable. Peter felt her quiver under + his hand. A hospital in festivity is very affecting. It smiles through its + tears. And in every assemblage there are sharply defined lines of + difference. There are those who are going home soon, God willing; there + are those who will go home some time after long days and longer nights. + And there are those who will never go home and who know it. And because of + this the ones who are never going home are most festively clad, as if, by + way of compensation, the nurses mean to give them all future Christmasses + in one. They receive an extra orange, or a pair of gloves, perhaps,—and + they are not the less grateful because they understand. And when + everything is over they lay away in the bedside stand the gloves they will + never wear, and divide the extra orange with a less fortunate one who is + almost recovered. Their last Christmas is past. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful the tree was!” they say. Or, “Did you hear how the children + sang? So little, to sing like that! It made me think—of angels.” + </p> + <p> + Peter led Harmony across the courtyard, through many twisting corridors, + and up and down more twisting staircases to the room where she was to + play. There were many Christmas trees in the hospital that afternoon; no + one hall could have held the thousands of patients, the doctors, the + nurses. Sometimes a single ward had its own tree, its own entertainment. + Occasionally two or three joined forces, preempted a lecture-room, and + wheeled or hobbled or carried in their convalescents. In such case an + imposing audience was the result. + </p> + <p> + Into such a room Peter led Harmony. It was an amphitheater, the seats + rising in tiers, half circle above half circle, to the dusk of the roof. + In the pit stood the tree, candle-lighted. There was no other illumination + in the room. The semi-darkness, the blazing tree, the rows of hopeful, + hoping, hopeless, rising above, white faces over white gowns, the soft + rustle of expectancy, the silence when the Dozent with the red beard + stepped out and began to read an address—all caught Harmony by the + throat. Peter, keenly alive to everything she did, felt rather than heard + her soft sob. + </p> + <p> + Peter saw the hospital anew that dark afternoon, saw it through Harmony's + eyes. Layer after layer his professional callus fell away, leaving him + quick again. He had lived so long close to the heart of humanity that he + had reduced its throbbing to beats that might be counted. Now, once more, + Peter was back in the early days, when a heart was not a pump, but a thing + that ached or thrilled or struggled, that loved or hated or yearned. + </p> + <p> + The orchestra, insisting on sadly sentimental music, was fast turning + festivity into gloom. It played Handel's “Largo”; it threw its whole soul + into the assurance that the world, after all, was only a poor place, that + Heaven was a better. It preached resignation with every deep vibration of + the cello. Harmony fidgeted. + </p> + <p> + “How terrible!” she whispered. “To turn their Christmas-Eve into mourning! + Stop them!” + </p> + <p> + “Stop a German orchestra?” + </p> + <p> + “They are crying, some of them. Oh, Peter!” + </p> + <p> + The music came to an end at last. Tears were dried. Followed recitations, + gifts, a speech of thanks from Nurse Elisabet for the patients. Then—Harmony. + </p> + <p> + Harmony never remembered afterward what she had played. It was joyous, she + knew, for the whole atmosphere changed. Laughter came; even the candles + burned more cheerfully. When she had finished, a student in a white coat + asked her to play a German Volkspiel, and roared it out to her + accompaniment with much vigor and humor. The audience joined in, at first + timidly, then lustily. + </p> + <p> + Harmony stood alone by the tree, violin poised, smiling at the applause. + Her eyes, running along the dim amphitheater, sought Peter's, and finding + them dwelt there a moment. Then she began to play softly and as softly the + others sang. + </p> + <p> + “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,”—they sang, with upturned eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Alles schlaeft, einsam wacht...” + </p> + <p> + Visions came to Peter that afternoon in the darkness, visions in which his + poverty was forgotten or mattered not at all. Visions of a Christmas-Eve + in a home that he had earned, of a tree, of a girl-woman, of a still and + holy night, of a child. + </p> + <p> + “Nur das traute, hoch heilige Paar Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar Schlaf' + in himmlischer Ruh', Schlaf' in himmlischer Ruh',” they sang. + </p> + <p> + There was real festivity at the old lodge of Maria Theresa that night. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy had taken his full place in the household. The best room, which had + been Anna's, had been given up to him. Here, carefully tended, with a fire + all day in the stove, Jimmy reigned from the bed. To him Harmony brought + her small puzzles and together they solved them. + </p> + <p> + “Shall it be a steak to-night?” thus Harmony humbly. “Or chops?” + </p> + <p> + “With tomato sauce?” + </p> + <p> + “If Peter allows, yes.” + </p> + <p> + Much thinking on Jimmy's part, and then:— + </p> + <p> + “Fish,” he would decide. “Fish with egg dressing.” + </p> + <p> + They would argue for a time, and compromise on fish. + </p> + <p> + The boy was better. Peter shook his head over any permanent improvement, + but Anna fiercely seized each crumb of hope. Many and bitter were the + battles she and Peter fought at night over his treatment, frightful the + litter of authorities Harmony put straight every morning. + </p> + <p> + The extra expense was not much, but it told. Peter's carefully calculated + expenditures felt the strain. He gave up a course in X-ray on which he had + set his heart and cut off his hour in the coffee-house as a luxury. There + was no hardship about the latter renunciation. Life for Peter was spelling + itself very much in terms of Harmony and Jimmy those days. He resented + anything that took him from them. + </p> + <p> + There were anxieties of a different sort also. Anna's father was failing. + He had written her a feeble, half-senile appeal to let bygones be bygones + and come back to see him before he died. Anna was Peter's great prop. What + would he do should she decide to go home? He had built his house on the + sand, indeed. + </p> + <p> + So far the threatened danger of a mother to Jimmy had not materialized. + Peter was puzzled, but satisfied. He still wrote letters of marvelous + adventure; Jimmy still watched for them, listened breathless, treasured + them under his pillow. But he spoke less of his father. The open page of + his childish mind was being written over with new impressions. “Dad” was + already a memory; Peter and Harmony and Anna were realities. Sometimes he + called Peter “Dad.” At those times Peter caught the boy to him in an agony + of tenderness. + </p> + <p> + And as the little apartment revolved round Jimmy, so was this + Christmas-Eve given up to him. All day he had stayed in bed for the + privilege of an extra hour propped up among pillows in the salon. All day + he had strung little red berries that looked like cranberries for the + tree, or fastened threads to the tiny cakes that were for trimming only, + and sternly forbidden to eat. + </p> + <p> + A marvelous day that for Jimmy. Late in the afternoon the Portier, with a + collar on, had mounted the stairs and sheepishly presented him with a pair + of white mice in a wooden cage. Jimmy was thrilled. The cage was on his + knees all evening, and one of the mice was clearly ill of a cake with pink + icing. The Portier's gift was a stealthy one, while his wife was having + coffee with her cousin, the brushmaker. But the spirit Of Christmas does + strange things. That very evening, while the Portier was roistering in a + beer hall preparatory to the midnight mass, came the Portier's wife, + puffing from the stairs, and brought a puzzle book that only the initiated + could open, and when one succeeded at last there was a picture of the + Christ-Child within. + </p> + <p> + Young McLean came to call that evening—came to call and remained to + worship. It was the first time since Mrs. Boyer that a visitor had come. + McLean, interested with everything and palpably not shocked, was a + comforting caller. He seemed to Harmony, who had had bad moments since the + day of Mrs. Boyer's visit, to put the hallmark of respectability on the + household, to restore it to something it had lost or had never had. + </p> + <p> + She was quite unconscious of McLean's admiration. She and Anna put Jimmy + to bed. The tree candles were burned out; Peter was extinguishing the + dying remnants when Harmony came back. McLean was at the piano, thrumming + softly. Peter, turning round suddenly, surprised an expression on the + younger man's face that startled him. + </p> + <p> + For that one night Harmony had laid aside her mourning, and wore white, + soft white, tucked in at the neck, short-sleeved, trailing. Peter had + never seen her in white before. + </p> + <p> + It was Peter's way to sit back and listen: his steady eyes were always + alert, good-humored, but he talked very little. That night he was + unusually silent. He sat in the shadow away from the lamp and watched the + two at the piano: McLean playing a bit of this or that, the girl bending + over a string of her violin. Anna came in and sat down near him. + </p> + <p> + “The boy is quite fascinated,” she whispered. “Watch his eyes!” + </p> + <p> + “He is a nice boy.” This from Peter, as if he argued with himself. + </p> + <p> + “As men go!” This was a challenge Peter was usually quick to accept. That + night he only smiled. “It would be a good thing for her: his people are + wealthy.” + </p> + <p> + Money, always money! Peter ground his teeth over his pipestem. Eminently + it would be a good thing for Harmony, this nice boy in his well-made + evening clothes, who spoke Harmony's own language of music, who was almost + speechless over her playing, and who looked up at her with eyes in which + admiration was not unmixed with adoration. + </p> + <p> + Peter was restless. As the music went on he tiptoed out of the room and + took to pacing up and down the little corridor. Each time as he passed the + door he tried not to glance in; each time he paused involuntarily. + Jealousy had her will of him that night, jealousy, when he had never + acknowledged even to himself how much the girl was to him. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was restless. Usually Harmony's music put him to sleep; but that + night he lay awake, even after Peter had closed all the doors. Peter came + in and sat with him in the dark, going over now and then to cover him, or + to give him a drink, or to pick up the cage of mice which Jimmy insisted + on having beside him and which constantly slipped off on to the floor. + After a time Peter lighted the night-light, a bit of wick on a cork + floating in a saucer of lard oil, and set it on the bedside table. Then + round it he arranged Jimmy's treasures, the deer antlers, the cage of + mice, the box, the wooden sentry. The boy fell asleep. Peter sat in the + room, his dead pipe in his teeth, and thought of many things. + </p> + <p> + It was very late when young McLean left. The two had played until they + stopped for very weariness. Anna had yawned herself off to bed. From + Jimmy's room Peter could hear the soft hum of their voices. + </p> + <p> + “You have been awfully good to me,” McLean said as he finally rose to go. + “I—I want you to know that I'll never forget this evening, never.” + </p> + <p> + “It has been splendid, hasn't it? Since little Scatchy left there has been + no one for the piano. I have been lonely sometimes for some one to talk + music to.” + </p> + <p> + Lonely! Poor Peter! + </p> + <p> + “Then you will let me come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Will I, indeed! I—I'll be grateful.” + </p> + <p> + “How soon would be proper? I dare say to-morrow you'll be busy—Christmas + and all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean you would like to come to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “If old Peter wouldn't be fussed. He might think—” + </p> + <p> + “Peter always wants every one to be happy. So if you really care—” + </p> + <p> + “And I'll not bore you?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather not!” + </p> + <p> + “How—about what time?” + </p> + <p> + “In the afternoon would be pleasant, I think. And then Jimmy can listen. + He loves music.” + </p> + <p> + McLean, having found his fur-lined coat, got into it as slowly as + possible. Then he missed a glove, and it must be searched for in all the + dark corners of the salon until found in his pocket. Even then he + hesitated, lingered, loath to break up this little world of two. + </p> + <p> + “You play wonderfully,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “So do you.” + </p> + <p> + “If only something comes of it! It's curious, isn't it, when you think of + it? You and I meeting here in the center of Europe and both of us working + our heads off for something that may never pan out.” + </p> + <p> + There was something reminiscent about that to Harmony. It was not until + after young McLean had gone that she recalled. It was almost word for word + what Peter had said to her in the coffee-house the night they met. She + thought it very curious, the coincidence, and pondered it, being ignorant + of the fact that it is always a matter for wonder when the man meets the + woman, no matter where. Nothing is less curious, more inevitable, more + amazing. “You and I,” forsooth, said Peter! + </p> + <p> + “You and I,” cried young McLean! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + Quite suddenly Peter's house, built on the sand, collapsed. The shock came + on Christmas-Day, after young McLean, now frankly infatuated, had been + driven home by Peter. + </p> + <p> + Peter did it after his own fashion. Harmony, with unflagging enthusiasm, + was looking tired. Suggestions to this effect rolled off McLean's back + like rain off a roof. Finally Peter gathered up the fur-lined coat, the + velours hat, gloves, and stick, and placed them on the piano in front of + the younger man. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry you must go,” said Peter calmly, “but, as you say, Miss Wells + is tired and there is supper to be eaten. Don't let me hurry you.” + </p> + <p> + The Portier was at the door as McLean, laughing and protesting, went out. + He brought a cablegram for Anna. Peter took it to her door and waited + uneasily while she read it. + </p> + <p> + It was an urgent summons home; the old father was very low. He was calling + for her, and a few days or week' would see the end. There were things that + must be looked after. The need of her was imperative. With the death the + old man's pension would cease and Anna was the bread-winner. + </p> + <p> + Anna held the paper out to Peter and sat down. Her nervous strength seemed + to have deserted her. All at once she was a stricken, elderly woman, with + hope wiped out of her face and something nearer resentment than grief in + its place. + </p> + <p> + “It has come, Peter,” she said dully. “I always knew it couldn't last. + They've always hung about my neck, and now—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you must go? Isn't there some way? If things are so bad you + could hardly get there in time, and—you must think of yourself a + little, Anna.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not thinking of anything else. Peter, I'm an uncommonly selfish + woman, but I—” + </p> + <p> + Quite without warning she burst out crying, unlovely, audible weeping that + shook her narrow shoulders. Harmony heard the sound and joined them. After + a look at Anna she sat down beside her and put a white arm over her + shoulders. She did not try to speak. Anna's noisy grief subsided as + suddenly as it came. She patted Harmony's hand in mute acknowledgment and + dried her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not grieving, child,” she said; “I'm only realizing what a selfish + old maid I am. I'm crying because I'm a disappointment to myself. Harry, + I'm going back to America.” + </p> + <p> + And that, after hours of discussion, was where they ended. Anna must go at + once. Peter must keep the apartment, having Jimmy to look after and to + hide. What was a frightful dilemma to him and to Harmony Anna took rather + lightly. + </p> + <p> + “You'll find some one else to take my place,” she said. “If I had a day I + could find a dozen.” + </p> + <p> + “And in the interval?” Harmony asked, without looking at Peter. + </p> + <p> + “The interval! Tut! Peter is your brother, to all intents and purposes. + And if you are thinking of scandal-mongers, who will know?” + </p> + <p> + Having determined to go, no arguments moved Anna, nor could either of the + two think of anything to urge beyond a situation she refused to see, or + rather a situation she refused to acknowledge. She was not as comfortable + as she pretended. During all that long night, while snow sifted down into + the ugly yard and made it beautiful, while Jimmy slept and the white mice + played, while Harmony tossed and tried to sleep and Peter sat in his cold + room and smoked his pipe, Anna packed her untidy belongings and added a + name now and then to a list that was meant for Peter, a list of possible + substitutes for herself in the little household. + </p> + <p> + She left early the next morning, a grim little person who bent over the + sleeping boy hungrily, and insisted on carrying her own bag down the + stairs. Harmony did not go to the station, but stayed at home, pale and + silent, hovering around against Jimmy's awakening and struggling against a + feeling of panic. Not that she feared Peter or herself. But she was + conventional; shielded girls are accustomed to lean for a certain support + on the proprieties, as bridgeplayers depend on rules. + </p> + <p> + Peter came back to breakfast, but ate little. Harmony did not even sit + down, but drank her cup of coffee standing, looking down at the snow + below. Jimmy still slept. + </p> + <p> + “Won't you sit down?” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not hungry, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “You can sit down without eating.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was nervous. To cover his uneasiness he was distinctly gruff. He + pulled a chair out for her and she sat down. Now that they were face to + face the tension was lessened. Peter laid Anna's list on the table between + them and bent over it toward her. + </p> + <p> + “You are hurting me very much, Harry,” he said. “Do you know why?” + </p> + <p> + “I? I am only sorry about Anna. I miss her. I—I was fond of her.” + </p> + <p> + “So was I. But that isn't it, Harry. It's something else.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm uncomfortable, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I. I'm sorry you don't trust me. For that's it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. But, Peter, what will people say?” + </p> + <p> + “A great deal, if they know. Who is to know? How many people know about + us? A handful, at the most, McLean and Mrs. Boyer and one or two others. + Of course I can go away until we get some one to take Anna's place, but + you'd be here alone at night, and if the youngster had an attack—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, don't leave him!” + </p> + <p> + “It's holiday time. There are no clinics until next week. If you'll put up + with me—” + </p> + <p> + “Put up with you, when it is your apartment I use, your food I eat!” She + almost choked. “Peter, I must talk about money.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm coming to that. Don't you suppose you more than earn everything? + Doesn't it humiliate me hourly to see you working here?” + </p> + <p> + “Peter! Would you rob me of my last vestige of self-respect?” + </p> + <p> + This being unanswerable, Peter fell back on his major premise. + </p> + <p> + “If you'll put up with me for a day or so I'll take this list of Anna's + and hunt up some body. Just describe the person you desire and I'll find + her.” He assumed a certainty he was far from feeling, but it reassured the + girl. “A woman, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. And not young.” + </p> + <p> + “'Not young,'” wrote Peter. “Fat?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony recalled Mrs. Boyer's ample figure and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Not too stout. And agreeable. That's most important.” + </p> + <p> + “'Agreeable,'” wrote Peter. “Although Anna was hardly agreeable, in the + strict sense of the word, was she?” + </p> + <p> + “She was interesting, and—and human.” + </p> + <p> + “'Human!'” wrote Peter. “Wanted, a woman, not young, not too stout, + agreeable and human. Shall I advertise?” + </p> + <p> + The strain was quite gone by that time. Harmony was smiling. Jimmy, + waking, called for food, and the morning of the first day was under way. + </p> + <p> + Peter was well content that morning, in spite of an undercurrent of + uneasiness. Before this Anna had shared his proprietorship with him. Now + the little household was his. His vicarious domesticity pleased him. He + strutted about, taking a new view of his domain; he tightened a doorknob + and fastened a noisy window. He inspected the coal-supply and grumbled + over its quality. He filled the copper kettle on the stove, carried in the + water for Jimmy's morning bath, cleaned the mouse cage. He even insisted + on peeling the little German potatoes, until Harmony cried aloud at his + wastefulness and took the knife from him. + </p> + <p> + And afterward, while Harmony in the sickroom read aloud and Jimmy put the + wooden sentry into the cage to keep order, he got out his books and tried + to study. But he did little work. His book lay on his knee, his pipe died + beside him. The strangeness of the situation came over him, sitting there, + and left him rather frightened. He tried to see it from the viewpoint of + an outsider, and found himself incredulous and doubting. McLean would + resent the situation. Even the Portier was a person to reckon with. The + skepticism of the American colony was a thing to fear and avoid. + </p> + <p> + And over all hung the incessant worry about money; he could just manage + alone. He could not, by any method he knew of, stretch his resources to + cover a separate arrangement for himself. But he had undertaken to shield + a girl-woman and a child, and shield them he would and could. + </p> + <p> + Brave thoughts were Peter's that snowy morning in the great salon of Maria + Theresa, with the cat of the Portier purring before the fire; brave + thoughts, cool reason, with Harmony practicing scales very softly while + Jimmy slept, and with Anna speeding through a white world, to the + accompaniment of bitter meditation. + </p> + <p> + Peter had meant to go to Semmering that day, but even the urgency of + Marie's need faded before his own situation. He wired Stewart that he + would come as soon as he could, and immediately after lunch departed for + the club, Anna's list in his pocket, Harmony's requirements in mind. He + paused at Jimmy's door on his way out. + </p> + <p> + “What shall it be to-day?” he inquired. “A postcard or a crayon?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could have a dog.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll have a dog when you are better and can take him walking. Wait until + spring, son.” + </p> + <p> + “Some more mice?” + </p> + <p> + “You will have them—but not to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “What holiday comes next?” + </p> + <p> + “New Year's Day. Suppose I bring you a New Year's card.” + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” agreed Jimmy. “One I can send to Dad. Do you think he will + come back this year?” wistfully. + </p> + <p> + Peter dropped on his baggy knees beside the bed and drew the little wasted + figure to him. + </p> + <p> + “I think you'll surely see him this year, old man,” he said huskily. + </p> + <p> + Peter walked to the Doctors' Club. On the way he happened on little + Georgiev, the Bulgarian, and they went on together. Peter managed to make + out that Georgiev was studying English, and that he desired to know the + state of health and the abode of the Fraulein Wells. Peter evaded the + latter by the simple expedient of pretending not to understand. The little + Bulgarian watched him earnestly, his smouldering eyes not without + suspicion. There had been much talk in the Pension Schwarz about the + departure together of the three Americans. The Jew from Galicia still + raved over Harmony's beauty. + </p> + <p> + Georgiev rather hoped, by staying by Peter, to be led toward his star. But + Peter left him at the Doctors' Club, still amiable, but absolutely obtuse + to the question nearest the little spy's heart. + </p> + <p> + The club was almost deserted. The holidays had taken many of the members + out of town. Other men were taking advantage of the vacation to see the + city, or to make acquaintance again with families they had hardly seen + during the busy weeks before Christmas. The room at the top of the stairs + where the wives of the members were apt to meet for chocolate and to + exchange the addresses of dressmakers was empty; in the reading room he + found McLean. Although not a member, McLean was a sort of honorary + habitue, being allowed the privilege of the club in exchange for a + dependable willingness to play at entertainments of all sorts. + </p> + <p> + It was in Peter's mind to enlist McLean's assistance in his difficulties. + McLean knew a good many people. He was popular, goodlooking, and in a + colony where, unlike London and Paris, the great majority were people of + moderate means, he was conspicuously well off. But he was also much + younger than Peter and intolerant with the insolence of youth. Peter was + thinking hard as he took off his overcoat and ordered beer. + </p> + <p> + The boy was in love with Harmony already; Peter had seen that, as he saw + many things. How far his love might carry him, Peter had no idea. It + seemed to him, as he sat across the reading-table and studied him over his + magazine, that McLean would resent bitterly the girl's position, and that + when he learned it a crisis might be precipitated. + </p> + <p> + One of three things might happen: He might bend all his energies to second + Peter's effort to fill Anna's place, to find the right person; he might + suggest taking Anna's place himself, and insist that his presence in the + apartment would be as justifiable as Peter's; or he might do at once the + thing Peter felt he would do eventually, cut the knot of the difficulty by + asking Harmony to marry him. Peter, greeting him pleasantly, decided not + to tell him anything, to keep him away if possible until the thing was + straightened out, and to wait for an hour at the club in the hope that a + solution might stroll in for chocolate and gossip. + </p> + <p> + In any event explanation to McLean would have required justification. + Peter disliked the idea. He could humble himself, if necessary, to a + woman; he could admit his asininity in assuming the responsibility of + Jimmy, for instance, and any woman worthy of the name, or worthy of living + in the house with Harmony, would understand. But McLean was young, + intolerant. He was more than that, though Peter, concealing from himself + just what Harmony meant to him, would not have admitted a rival for what + he had never claimed. But a rival the boy was. Peter, calmly reading a + magazine and drinking his Munich beer, was in the grip of the fiercest + jealousy. He turned pages automatically, to recall nothing of what he had + read. + </p> + <p> + McLean, sitting across from him, watched him surreptitiously. Big Peter, + aggressively masculine, heavy of shoulder, direct of speech and eye, was + to him the embodiment of all that a woman should desire in a man. He, too, + was jealous, but humbly so. Unlike Peter he knew his situation, was young + enough to glory in it. Shameless love is always young; with years comes + discretion, perhaps loss of confidence. The Crusaders were youths, + pursuing an idea to the ends of the earth and flaunting a lady's guerdon + from spear or saddle-bow. The older men among them tucked the handkerchief + or bit of a gauntleted glove under jerkin and armor near the heart, and + flung to the air the guerdon of some light o' love. McLean would have + shouted Harmony's name from the housetops. Peter did not acknowledge even + to himself that he was in love with her. + </p> + <p> + It occurred to McLean after a time that Peter being in the club, and + Harmony being in all probability at home, it might be possible to see her + alone for a few minutes. He had not intended to go back to the house in + the Siebensternstrasse so soon after being peremptorily put out; he had + come to the club with the intention of clinching his resolution with a + game of cribbage. But fate was playing into his hands. There was no + cribbage player round, and Peter himself sat across deeply immersed in a + magazine. McLean rose, not stealthily, but without unnecessary noise. + </p> + <p> + So far so good. Peter turned a page and went on reading. McLean sauntered + to a window, hands in pockets. He even whistled a trifle, under his + breath, to prove how very casual were his intentions. Still whistling, he + moved toward the door. Peter turned another page, which was curiously soon + to have read two columns of small type without illustrations. + </p> + <p> + Once out in the hall McLean's movements gained aim and precision. He got + his coat, hat and stick, flung the first over his arm and the second on + his head, and— + </p> + <p> + “Going out?” asked Peter calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, nothing to do here. I've read all the infernal old magazines until + I'm sick of them.” Indignant, too, from his tone. + </p> + <p> + “Walking?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Mind if I go with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all.” + </p> + <p> + Peter, taking down his old overcoat from its hook, turned and caught the + boy's eye. It was a swift exchange of glances, but illuminating—Peter's + whimsical, but with a sort of grim determination; McLean's sheepish, but + equally determined. + </p> + <p> + “Rotten afternoon,” said McLean as they started for the stairs. “Half + rain, half snow. Streets are ankle-deep.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not particularly keen about walking, but—I don't care for this + tomb alone.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing was further from McLean's mind than a walk with Peter that + afternoon. He hesitated halfway down the upper flight. + </p> + <p> + “You don't care for cribbage, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't know anything about it. How about pinochle?” + </p> + <p> + They had both stopped, equally determined, equally hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “Pinochle it is,” acquiesced McLean. “I was only going because there was + nothing to do.” + </p> + <p> + Things went very well for Peter that afternoon—up to a certain + point. He beat McLean unmercifully, playing with cold deliberation. McLean + wearied, fidgeted, railed at his luck. Peter played on grimly. + </p> + <p> + The club filled up toward the coffee-hour. Two or three women, wives of + members, a young girl to whom McLean had been rather attentive before he + met Harmony and who bridled at the abstracted bow he gave her. And, + finally, when hope in Peter was dead, one of the women on Anna's list. + </p> + <p> + Peter, laying down pairs and marking up score, went over Harmony's + requirements. Dr. Jennings seemed to fit them all, a woman, not young, not + too stout, agreeable and human. She was a large, almost bovinely placid + person, not at all reminiscent of Anna. She was neat where Anna had been + disorderly, well dressed and breezy against Anna's dowdiness and + sharpness. Peter, having totaled the score, rose and looked down at + McLean. + </p> + <p> + “You're a nice lad,” he said, smiling. “Sometime I shall teach you the + game.” + </p> + <p> + “How about a lesson to-night in Seven-Star Street?” + </p> + <p> + “To-night? Why, I'm sorry. We have an engagement for to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The “we” was deliberate and cruel. McLean writhed. Also the statement was + false, but the boy was spared that knowledge for the moment. + </p> + <p> + Things went well. Dr. Jennings was badly off for quarters. She would make + a change if she could better herself. Peter drew her off to a corner and + stated his case. She listened attentively, albeit not without disapproval. + </p> + <p> + She frankly discredited the altruism of Peter's motives when he told her + about Harmony. But as the recital went on she found herself rather + touched. The story of Jimmy appealed to her. She scolded and lauded Peter + in one breath, and what was more to the point, she promised to visit the + house in the Siebensternstrasse the next day. + </p> + <p> + “So Anna Gates has gone home!” she reflected. “When?” + </p> + <p> + “This morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the girl is there alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She is very young and inexperienced, and the boy—it's + myocarditis. She's afraid to be left with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she quite alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely, and without funds, except enough for her lessons. Our + arrangement was that she should keep the house going; that was her share.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Jennings was impressed. It was impossible to talk to Peter and not + believe him. Women trusted Peter always. + </p> + <p> + “You've been very foolish, Dr. Byrne,” she said as she rose; “but you've + been disinterested enough to offset that and to put some of us to shame. + To-morrow at three, if it suits you. You said the Siebensternstrasse?” + </p> + <p> + Peter went home exultant. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + Christmas-Day had had a softening effect on Mrs. Boyer. It had opened + badly. It was the first Christmas she had spent away from her children, + and there had been little of the holiday spirit in her attitude as she + prepared the Christmas breakfast. After that, however, things happened. + </p> + <p> + In the first place, under her plate she had found a frivolous chain and + pendant which she had admired. And when her eyes filled up, as they did + whenever she was emotionally moved, the doctor had come round the table + and put both his arms about her. + </p> + <p> + “Too young for you? Not a bit!” he said heartily. “You're better-looking + then you ever were, Jennie; and if you weren't you're the only woman for + me, anyhow. Don't you think I realize what this exile means to you and + that you're doing it for me?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don't mind it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you do. To-night we'll go out and make a night of it, shall we? + Supper at the Grand, the theater, and then the Tabarin, eh?” + </p> + <p> + She loosened herself from his arms. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I wear? Those horrible things the children bought me—” + </p> + <p> + “Throw 'em away.” + </p> + <p> + “They're not worn at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Throw them out. Get rid of the things the children got you. Go out + to-morrow and buy something you like—not that I don't like you in + anything or without—” + </p> + <p> + “Frank!” + </p> + <p> + “Be happy, that's the thing. It's the first Christmas without the family, + and I miss them too. But we're together, dear. That's the big thing. Merry + Christmas.” + </p> + <p> + An auspicious opening, that, to Christmas-Day. And they had carried out + the program as outlined. Mrs. Boyer had enjoyed it, albeit a bit horrified + at the Christmas gayety at the Tabarin. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, however, she awakened with a keen reaction. Her head + ached. She had a sense of taint over her. She was virtue rampant again, as + on the day she had first visited the old lodge in the Siebensternstrasse. + </p> + <p> + It is hardly astonishing that by association of ideas Harmony came into + her mind again, a brand that might even yet be snatched from the burning. + She had been a bit hasty before, she admitted to herself. There was a + woman doctor named Gates, although her address at the club was given as + Pension Schwarz. She determined to do her shopping early and then to visit + the house in the Siebensternstrasse. She was not a hard woman, for all her + inflexible morality, and more than once she had had an uneasy memory of + Harmony's bewildered, almost stricken face the afternoon of her visit. She + had been a watchful mother over a not particularly handsome family of + daughters. This lovely young girl needed mothering and she had refused it. + She would go back, and if she found she had been wrong and the girl was + deserving and honest, she would see what could be done. + </p> + <p> + The day was wretched. The snow had turned to rain. Mrs. Boyer, shopping, + dragged wet skirts and damp feet from store to store. She found nothing + that she cared for after all. The garments that looked chic in the windows + or on manikins in the shops, were absurd on her. Her insistent bosom + bulged, straight lines became curves or tortuous zigzags, plackets gaped, + collars choked her or shocked her by their absence. In the mirror of Marie + Jedlicka, clad in familiar garments that had accommodated themselves to + the idiosyncrasies of her figure, Mrs. Boyer was a plump, rather comely + matron. Here before the plate glass of the modiste, under the glare of a + hundred lights, side by side with a slim Austrian girl who looked like a + willow wand, Mrs. Boyer was grotesque, ridiculous, monstrous. She + shuddered. She almost wept. + </p> + <p> + It was bad preparation for a visit to the Siebensternstrasse. Mrs. Boyer, + finding her vanity gone, convinced that she was an absurdity physically, + fell back for comfort on her soul. She had been a good wife and mother; + she was chaste, righteous. God had been cruel to her in the flesh, but He + had given her the spirit. + </p> + <p> + “Madame wishes not the gown? It is beautiful—see the embroidery! And + the neck may be filled with chiffon.” + </p> + <p> + “Young woman,” she said grimly, “I see the embroidery; and the neck may be + filled with chiffon, but not for me! And when you have had five children, + you will not buy clothes like that either.” + </p> + <p> + All the kindliness was gone from the visit to the Siebensternstrasse; only + the determination remained. Wounded to the heart of her self-esteem, her + pride in tatters, she took her way to the old lodge and climbed the + stairs. + </p> + <p> + She found a condition of mild excitement. Jimmy had slept long after his + bath. Harmony practiced, cut up a chicken for broth, aired blankets for + the chair into which Peter on his return was to lift the boy. + </p> + <p> + She was called to inspect the mouse-cage, which, according to Jimmy, had + strawberries in it. + </p> + <p> + “Far back,” he explained. “There in the cotton, Harry.” + </p> + <p> + But it was not strawberries. Harmony opened the cage and very tenderly + took out the cotton nest. Eight tiny pink baby mice, clean washed by the + mother, lay curled in a heap. + </p> + <p> + It was a stupendous moment. The joy of vicarious parentage was Jimmy's. He + named them all immediately and demanded food for them. On Harmony's + delicate explanation that this was unnecessary, life took on a new meaning + for Jimmy. He watched the mother lest she slight one. His responsibility + weighed on him. Also his inquiring mind was very busy. + </p> + <p> + “But how did they get there?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “God sent them, just as he sends babies of all sorts.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he send me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a good one on you, Harry. My father found me in a hollow tree.” + </p> + <p> + “But don't you think God had something to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy pondered this. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” he reflected, “God sent Daddy to find me so that I would be + his little boy. You never happened to see any babies when you were out + walking, did you, Harry?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in stumps—but I probably wasn't looking.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy eyed her with sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “You may some day. Would you like to have one?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much,” said Harmony, and flushed delightfully. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was disposed to press the matter, to urge immediate maternity on + her. + </p> + <p> + “You could lay it here on the bed,” he offered, “and I'd watch it. When + they yell you let 'em suck your finger. I knew a woman once that had a + baby and she did that. And it could watch Isabella.” Isabella was the + mother mouse. “And when I'm better I could take it walking.” + </p> + <p> + “That,” said Harmony gravely, “is mighty fine of you, Jimmy boy. I—I'll + think about it.” She never denied Jimmy anything, so now she temporized. + </p> + <p> + “I'll ask Peter.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony had a half-hysterical moment; then: + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't it be better,” she asked, “to keep anything of that sort a + secret? And to surprise Peter?” + </p> + <p> + The boy loved a secret. He played with it in lieu of other occupation. His + uncertain future was sown thick with secrets that would never flower into + reality. Thus Peter had shamelessly promised him a visit to the circus + when he was able to go, Harmony not to be told until the tickets were + bought. Anna had similarly promised to send him from America a pitcher's + glove and a baseball bat. To this list of futurities he now added + Harmony's baby. + </p> + <p> + Harmony brought in her violin and played softly to him, not to disturb the + sleeping mice. She sang, too, a verse that the Big Soprano had been fond + of and that Jimmy loved. Not much of a voice was Harmony's, but sweet and + low and very true, as became her violinist's ear. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ah, well! For us all some sweet hope lies + Deeply buried from human eyes,” + </pre> + <p> + she sang, her clear eyes luminous. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And in the hereafter, angels may + Roll the stone from its grave away!” + </pre> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer mounted the stairs. She was in a very bad humor. She had + snagged her skirt on a nail in the old gate, and although that very + morning she had detested the suit, her round of shopping had again + endeared it to her. She told the Portier in English what she thought of + him, and climbed ponderously, pausing at each landing to examine the + damage. + </p> + <p> + Harmony, having sung Jimmy to sleep, was in the throes of an experiment. + She was trying to smoke. + </p> + <p> + A very human young person was Harmony, apt to be exceedingly wretched if + her hat were of last year's fashion, anxious to be inconspicuous by doing + what every one else was doing, conventional as are the very young, fearful + of being an exception. + </p> + <p> + And nearly every one was smoking. Many of the young women whom she met at + the master's house had yellowed fingers and smoked in the anteroom; the + Big Soprano had smoked; Anna and Scatchy had smoked; in the coffee-houses + milliners' apprentices produced little silver mouth-pieces to prevent + soiling their pretty lips and smoked endlessly. Even Peter had admitted + that it was not a vice, but only a comfortable bad habit. And Anna had + left a handful of cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was not smoking; she was experimenting. Peter and Anna had smoked + together and it had looked comradely. Perhaps, without reasoning it out, + Harmony was experimenting toward the end of establishing her relations + with Peter still further on friendly and comradely grounds. Two men might + smoke together; a man and a woman might smoke together as friends. + According to Harmony's ideas, a girl paring potatoes might inspire + sentiment, but smoking a cigarette—never! + </p> + <p> + She did not like it. She thought, standing before her little mirror, that + she looked fast, after all. She tried pursing her lips together, as she + had seen Anna do, and blowing out the smoke in a thin line. She smoked + very hard, so that she stood in the center of a gray nimbus. She hated it, + but she persisted. Perhaps it grew on one; perhaps, also, if she walked + about it would choke her less. She practiced holding the thing between her + first and second fingers, and found that easier than smoking. Then she + went to the salon where there was more air, and tried exhaling through her + nose. It made her sneeze. + </p> + <p> + On the sneeze came Mrs. Boyer's ring. Harmony thought very fast. It might + be the bread or the milk, but again—She flung the cigarette into the + stove, shut the door, and answered the bell. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer's greeting was colder than she had intended. It put Harmony on + the defensive at once, made her uncomfortable. Like all the innocent + falsely accused she looked guiltier than the guiltiest. Under Mrs. Boyer's + searching eyes the enormity of her situation overwhelmed her. And over + all, through salon and passage, hung the damning odor of the cigarette. + Harmony, leading the way in, was a sheep before her shearer. + </p> + <p> + “I'm calling on all of you,” said Mrs. Boyer, sniping. “I meant to bring + Dr. Boyer's cards for every one, including Dr. Byrne.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry. Dr. Byrne is out.” + </p> + <p> + “And Dr. Gates?” + </p> + <p> + “She—she is away.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer raised her eyebrows and ostentatiously changed the subject, + requesting a needle and thread to draw the rent together. It had been in + Harmony's mind to explain the situation, to show Jimmy to Mrs. Boyer, to + throw herself on the older woman's sympathy, to ask advice. But the + visitor's attitude made this difficult. To add to her discomfort, through + the grating in the stove door was coming a thin thread of smoke. + </p> + <p> + It was, after all, Mrs. Boyer who broached the subject again. She had had + a cup of tea, and Harmony, sitting on a stool, had mended the rent so that + it could hardly be seen. Mrs. Boyer, softened by the tea and by the + proximity of Harmony's lovely head bent over her task, grew slightly more + expansive. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to tell you something, Miss Wells,” she said. “You remember my + other visit?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly.” Harmony bent still lower. + </p> + <p> + “I did you an injustice at that time. I've been sorry ever since. I + thought that there was no Dr. Gates. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to deny + it. People do things in this wicked city that they wouldn't do at home. I + confess I misjudged Peter Byrne. You can give him my apologies, since he + won't see me.” + </p> + <p> + “But he isn't here or of course he'd see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” demanded Mrs. Boyer grimly, “if Peter Byrne is not here, who has + been smoking cigarettes in this room? There is one still burning in that + stove!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony's hand was forced. She was white as she cut the brown-silk thread + and rose to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” she said, “that I'd better go back a few weeks, Mrs. Boyer, and + tell you a story, if you have time to listen.” + </p> + <p> + “If it is disagreeable—” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. It is about Peter Byrne and myself, and—some others. It + is really about Peter. Mrs. Boyer, will you come very quietly across the + hall?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer, expecting Heaven knows what, rose with celerity. Harmony led + the way to Jimmy's door and opened it. He was still asleep, a wasted small + figure on the narrow bed. Beside him the mice frolicked in their cage, the + sentry kept guard over Peter's shameless letters from the Tyrol, the + strawberry babies wriggled in their cotton. + </p> + <p> + “We are not going to have him very long,” said Harmony softly. “Peter is + making him happy for a little while.” + </p> + <p> + Back in the salon of Maria Theresa she told the whole story. Mrs. Boyer + found it very affecting. Harmony sat beside her on a stool and she kept + her hand on the girl's shoulder. When the narrative reached Anna's going + away, however, she took it away. From that point on she sat + uncompromisingly rigid and listened. + </p> + <p> + “Then you mean to say,” she exploded when Harmony had finished, “that you + intend to stay on here, just the two of you?” + </p> + <p> + “And Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah! What has the child to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “We will find some one to take Anna's place.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt it. And until you do?” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing wicked in what we are doing. Don't you see, Mrs. Boyer, + I can't leave the boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Since Peter is so altruistic, let him hire a nurse.” + </p> + <p> + Bad as things were, Harmony smiled. + </p> + <p> + “A nurse!” she said. “Why, do you realize that he is keeping three people + now on what is starvation for one?” + </p> + <p> + “Then he's a fool!” Mrs. Boyer rose in majesty. “I'm not going to leave + you here.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry. You must see—” + </p> + <p> + “I see nothing but a girl deliberately putting herself in a compromising + portion and worse.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Boyer!” + </p> + <p> + “Get your things on. I guess Dr. Boyer and I can look after you until we + can send you home.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not going home—yet,” said poor Harmony, biting her lip to + steady it. + </p> + <p> + Back and forth waged the battle, Mrs. Boyer assailing, Harmony offering + little defense but standing firm on her refusal to go as long as Peter + would let her remain. + </p> + <p> + “It means so much to me,” she ventured, goaded. “And I earn my lodging and + board. I work hard and—I make him comfortable. It costs him very + little and I give him something in exchange. All men are not alike. If the + sort you have known are—are different—” + </p> + <p> + This was unfortunate. Mrs. Boyer stiffened. She ceased offensive tactics, + and retired grimly into the dignity of her high calling of virtuous wife + and mother. She washed her hands of Harmony and Peter. She tied on her + veil with shaking hands, and prepared to leave Harmony to her fate. + </p> + <p> + “Give me your mother's address,” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “You absolutely refuse to save yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “From what? From Peter? There are many worse people than Peter to save + myself from, Mrs. Boyer—uncharitable people, and—and cruel + people.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer shrugged her plump shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Meaning me!” she retorted. “My dear child, people are always cruel who + try to save us from ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + Unluckily for Harmony, one of Anna's specious arguments must pop into her + head at that instant and demand expression. + </p> + <p> + “People are living their own lives these days, Mrs. Boyer; old standards + have gone. It is what one's conscience condemns that is wrong, isn't it? + Not merely breaking laws that were made to fit the average, not the + exception.” + </p> + <p> + Anna! Anna! + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer flung up her hands. + </p> + <p> + “You are impossible!” she snapped. “After all, I believe it is Peter who + needs protection! I shall speak to him.” + </p> + <p> + She started down the staircase, but turned for a parting volley. + </p> + <p> + “And just a word of advice: Perhaps the old standards have gone. But if + you really expect to find a respectable woman to chaperon YOU, keep your + views to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony, a bruised and wounded thing, crept into Jimmy's room and sank on + her knees beside the bed. One small hand lay on the coverlet; she dared + not touch it for fear of waking him—but she laid her cheek close to + it for comfort. When Peter came in, much later, he found the boy wide + awake and Harmony asleep, a crumpled heap beside the bed. + </p> + <p> + “I think she's been crying,” Jimmy whispered. “She's been sobbing in her + sleep. And strike a match, Peter; there may be more mice.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer, bursting with indignation, went to the Doctors' Club. It was + typical of the way things were going with Peter that Dr. Boyer was not + there, and that the only woman in the clubrooms should be Dr. Jennings. + Young McLean was in the reading room, eating his heart out with jealousy + of Peter, vacillating between the desire to see Harmony that night and + fear lest Peter forbid him the house permanently if he made the attempt. + He had found a picture of the Fraulein Engel, from the opera, in a + magazine, and was sitting with it open before him. Very deeply and really + in love was McLean that afternoon, and the Fraulein Engel and Harmony were + not unlike. The double doors between the reading room and the reception + room adjoining were open. McLean, lost in a rosy future in which he and + Harmony sat together for indefinite periods, with no Peter to scowl over + his books at them, a future in which life was one long piano-violin duo, + with the candles in the chandelier going out one by one, leaving them at + last alone in scented darkness together—McLean heard nothing until + the mention of the Siebensternstrasse roused him. + </p> + <p> + After that he listened. He heard that Dr. Jennings was contemplating + taking Anna's place at the lodge, and he comprehended after a moment that + Anna was already gone. Even then the significance of the situation was a + little time in dawning on him. When it did, however, he rose with a + stifled oath. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer was speaking. + </p> + <p> + “It is exactly as I tell you,” she was saying. “If Peter Byrne is trying + to protect her reputation he is late doing it. Personally I have been + there twice. I never saw Anna Gates. And she is registered here at the + club as living in the Pension Schwarz. Whatever the facts may be, one + thing remains, she is not there now.” + </p> + <p> + McLean waited to hear no more. He was beside himself with rage. He found a + “comfortable” at the curb. The driver was asleep inside the carriage. + McLean dragged him out by the shoulder and shouted an address to him. The + cab bumped along over the rough streets to an accompaniment of protests + from its frantic passenger. + </p> + <p> + The boy was white-lipped with wrath and fear. Peter's silence that + afternoon as to the state of affairs loomed large and significant. He had + thought once or twice that Peter was in love with Harmony; he knew it now + in the clearer vision of the moment. He recalled things that maddened him: + the dozen intimacies of the little menage, the caress in Peter's voice + when he spoke to the girl, Peter's steady eyes in the semi-gloom of the + salon while Harmony played. + </p> + <p> + At a corner they must pause for the inevitable regiment. McLean cursed, + bending out to see how long the delay would be. Peter had been gone for + half an hour, perhaps, but Peter would walk. If he could only see the girl + first, talk to her, tell her what she would be doing by remaining— + </p> + <p> + He was there at last, flinging across the courtyard like a madman. Peter + was already there; his footprints were fresh in the slush of the path. The + house door was closed but not locked. McLean ran up the stairs. It was + barely twilight outside, but the staircase well was dark. At the upper + landing he was compelled to fumble for the bell. + </p> + <p> + Peter admitted him. The corridor was unlighted, but from the salon came a + glow of lamplight. McLean, out of breath and furious, faced Peter. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see Harmony,” he said without preface. + </p> + <p> + Peter eyed him. He knew what had happened, had expected it when the bell + rang, had anticipated it when Harmony told him of Mrs. Boyer's visit. In + the second between the peal of the bell and his opening the door he had + decided what to do. + </p> + <p> + “Come in.” + </p> + <p> + McLean stepped inside. He was smaller than Peter, not so much shorter as + slenderer. Even Peter winced before the look in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “In the kitchen, I think. Come into the salon.” + </p> + <p> + McLean flung off his coat. Peter closed the door behind him and stood just + inside. He had his pipe as usual. “I came to see her, not you, Byrne.” + </p> + <p> + “So I gather. I'll let you see her, of course, but don't you want to see + me first?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to take her away from here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Are you better able to care for her than I am?” + </p> + <p> + McLean stood rigid. He had thrust his clenched hands into his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “You're a scoundrel, Byrne,” he said steadily. “Why didn't you tell me + this this afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I knew if I did you'd do just what you are doing.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to keep her here?” + </p> + <p> + Peter changed color at the thrust, but he kept himself in hand. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not keeping her here,” he said patiently. “I'm doing the best I can + under the circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “Then your best is pretty bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. If you would try to remember the circumstances, McLean,—that + the girl has no place else to go, practically no money, and that I—” + </p> + <p> + “I remember one circumstance, that you are living here alone with her and + that you're crazy in love with her.” + </p> + <p> + “That has nothing to do with you. As long as I treat her—” + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you be good enough to let me finish what I am trying to say? She's + safe with me. When I say that I mean it. She will not go away from here + with you or with any one else if I can prevent it. And if you care enough + about her to try to keep her happy you'll not let her know you have been + here. I've got a woman coming to take Anna's place. That ought to satisfy + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Dr. Jennings?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She'll not come. Mrs. Boyer has been talking to her. Inside of an hour + the whole club will have it—every American in Vienna will know about + it in a day or so. I tell you, Byrne, you're doing an awful thing.” + </p> + <p> + Peter drew a long breath. He had had his bad half-hour before McLean came; + had had to stand by, wordless, and see Harmony trying to smile, see her + dragging about, languid and white, see her tragic attempts to greet him on + the old familiar footing. Through it all he had been sustained by the + thought that a day or two days would see the old footing reestablished, + another woman in the house, life again worth the living and Harmony + smiling up frankly into his eyes. Now this hope had departed. + </p> + <p> + “You can't keep me from seeing her, you know,” McLean persisted. “I've got + to put this thing to her. She's got to choose.” + </p> + <p> + “What alternative have you to suggest?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd marry her if she'd have me.” + </p> + <p> + After all Peter had expected that. And, if she cared for the boy wouldn't + that be best for her? What had he to offer against that? He couldn't + marry. He could only offer her shelter, against everything else. Even then + he did not dislike McLean. He was a man, every slender inch of him, this + boy musician. Peter's heart sank, but he put down his pipe and turned to + the door. + </p> + <p> + “I'll call her,” he said. “But, since this concerns me very vitally, I + should like to be here while you put the thing to her. After that if you + like—” + </p> + <p> + He called Harmony. She had given Jimmy his supper and was carrying out a + tray that seemed hardly touched. + </p> + <p> + “He won't eat to-night,” she said miserably. “Peter, if he stops eating, + what can we do? He is so weak!” + </p> + <p> + Peter, took the tray from her gently. + </p> + <p> + “Harry dear,” he said, “I want you to come into the salon. Some one wishes + to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “To me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Harry, do you remember that evening in the kitchen when—Do you + recall what I promised?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “You are sure you know what I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right, then. McLean wants to see you.” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, looking up at him. + </p> + <p> + “McLean? You look so grave, Peter. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “He will tell you. Nothing alarming.” + </p> + <p> + Peter gave McLean a minute alone after all, while he carried the tray to + the kitchen. He had no desire to play watchdog over the girl, he told + himself savagely; only to keep himself straight with her and to save her + from McLean's impetuosity. He even waited in the kitchen to fill and light + his pipe. + </p> + <p> + McLean had worked himself into a very fair passion. He was intense, almost + theatrical, as he stood with folded arms waiting for Harmony. So entirely + did the girl fill his existence that he forgot, or did not care to + remember, how short a time he had known her. As Harmony she dominated his + life and his thoughts; as Harmony he addressed her when, rather startled, + she entered the salon and stood just inside the closed door. + </p> + <p> + “Peter said you wanted to speak to me.” + </p> + <p> + McLean groaned. “Peter!” he said. “It is always Peter. Look here, Harmony, + you cannot stay here.” + </p> + <p> + “It is only for a few hours. To-morrow some one is coming. And, anyhow, + Peter is going to Semmering. We know it is unusual, but what can we do?” + </p> + <p> + “Unusual! It's—it's damnable. It's the appearance of the thing, + don't you see that?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it is rather silly to talk of appearance when there is no one to + care. And how can I leave? Jimmy needs me all the time—” + </p> + <p> + “That's another idiocy of Peter's. What does he mean by putting you in + this position?” + </p> + <p> + “I am one of Peter's idiocies.” + </p> + <p> + Peter entered on that. He took in the situation with a glance, and Harmony + turned to him; but if she had expected Peter to support her, she was + disappointed. Whatever decision she was to make must be her own, in + Peter's troubled mind. He crossed the room and stood at one of the + windows, looking out, a passive participant in the scene. + </p> + <p> + The day had been a trying one for Harmony. What she chose to consider + Peter's defection was a fresh stab. She glanced from McLean, flushed and + excited, to Peter's impassive back. Then she sat down, rather limp, and + threw out her hands helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do?” she demanded. “Every one comes with cruel things to + say, but no one tells me what to do.” + </p> + <p> + Peter turned away from the window. + </p> + <p> + “You can leave here,” ventured McLean. “That's the first thing. After that—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and after that, what?” + </p> + <p> + McLean glanced at Peter. Then he took a step toward the girl. + </p> + <p> + “You could marry me, Harmony,” he said unsteadily. “I hadn't expected to + tell you so soon, or before a third person.” He faltered before Harmony's + eyes, full of bewilderment. “I'd be very happy if you—if you could + see it that way. I care a great deal, you see.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed hours to Peter before she made any reply, and that her voice + came from miles away. + </p> + <p> + “Is it really as bad as that?” she asked. “Have I made such a mess of + things that some one, either you or Peter, must marry me to straighten + things out? I don't want to marry any one. Do I have to?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly you don't have to,” said Peter. There was relief in his voice, + relief and also something of exultation. “McLean, you mean well, but + marriage isn't the solution. We were getting along all right until our + friends stepped in. Let Mrs. Boyer howl all over the colony; there will be + one sensible woman somewhere to come and be comfortable here with us. In + the interval we'll manage, unless Harmony is afraid. In that case—” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid of what?” + </p> + <p> + The two men exchanged glances, McLean helpless, Peter triumphant. + </p> + <p> + “I do not care what Mrs. Boyer says, at least not much. And I am not + afraid of anything else at all.” + </p> + <p> + McLean picked up his overcoat. + </p> + <p> + “At least,” he appealed to Peter, “you'll come over to my place?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” said Peter. + </p> + <p> + McLean made a final appeal to Harmony. + </p> + <p> + “If this gets out,” he said, “you are going to regret it all your life.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have nothing to regret,” she retorted proudly. + </p> + <p> + Had Peter not been there McLean would have made a better case, would have + pleaded with her, would have made less of a situation that roused her + resentment and more of his love for her. He was very hard hit, very young. + He was almost hysterical with rage and helplessness; he wanted to slap + her, to take her in his arms. He writhed under the restraint of Peter's + steady eyes. + </p> + <p> + He got to the door and turned, furious. + </p> + <p> + “Then it's up to you,” he flung at Peter. “You're old enough to know + better; she isn't. And don't look so damned superior. You're human, like + the rest of us. And if any harm comes to her—” + </p> + <p> + Here unexpectedly Peter held out his hand, and after a sheepish moment + McLean took it. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, old man,” said Peter. “And—don't be an ass.” + </p> + <p> + As was Peter's way, the words meant little, the tone much. McLean knew + what in his heart he had known all along—that the girl was safe + enough; that all that was to fear was the gossip of scandal-lovers. He + took Peter's hand, and then going to Harmony stood before her very erect. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I've said too much; I always do,” he said contritely. “But you + know the reason. Don't forget the reason, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am only sorry.” + </p> + <p> + He bent over and kissed her hand lingeringly. It was a tragic moment for + him, poor lad! He turned and went blindly out the door and down the dark + stone staircase. It was rather anticlimax, after all that, to have Peter + discover he had gone without his hat and toss it down to him a flight + below. + </p> + <p> + All the frankness had gone out of the relationship between Harmony and + Peter. They made painful efforts at ease, talked during the meal of + careful abstractions, such as Jimmy, and Peter's proposed trip to + Semmering, avoided each other's eyes, ate little or nothing. Once when + Harmony passed Peter his coffee-cup their fingers touched, and between + them they dropped the cup. Harmony was flushed and pallid by turns, Peter + wretched and silent. + </p> + <p> + Out of the darkness came one ray of light. Stewart had wired from + Semmering, urging Peter to come. He would be away for two days. In two + days much might happen; Dr. Jennings might come or some one else. In two + days some of the restraint would have worn off. Things would never be the + same, but they would be forty-eight hours better. + </p> + <p> + Peter spent the early part of the evening with Jimmy, reading aloud to + him. After the child had dropped to sleep he packed a valise for the next + day's journey and counted out into an envelope half of the money he had + with him. This he labeled “Household Expenses” and set it up on his table, + leaning against his collar-box. There was no sign of Harmony about. The + salon was dark except for the study lamp turned down. + </p> + <p> + Peter was restless. He put on his shabby dressing-gown and worn slippers + and wandered about. The Portier had brought coal to the landing; Peter + carried it in. He inspected the medicine bottles on Jimmy's stand and + wrote full directions for every emergency he could imagine. Then, finding + it still only nine o'clock, he turned up the lamp in the salon and wrote + an exciting letter from Jimmy's father, in which a lost lamb, wandering on + the mountain-side, had been picked up by an avalanche and carried down + into the fold and the arms of the shepherd. And because he stood so in + loco parentis, and because it seemed so inevitable that before long Jimmy + would be in the arms of the Shepherd, and, of course, because it had been + a trying day all through, Peter's lips were none too steady as he folded + up the letter. + </p> + <p> + The fire was dead in the stove; Peter put out the salon lamp and closed + the shutters. In the warm darkness he put out his hand to feel his way + through the room. It touched a little sweater coat of Harmony's, hanging + over the back of a chair. Peter picked it up in a very passion of + tenderness and held it to him. + </p> + <p> + “Little girl!” he choked. “My little girl! God help me!” + </p> + <p> + He was rather ashamed, considerably startled. It alarmed him to find that + the mere unexpected touch of a familiar garment could rouse such a storm + in him. It made him pause. He put down the coat and pulled himself up + sharply. McLean was right; he was only human stuff, very poor human stuff. + He put the little coat down hastily, only to lift it again gently to his + lips. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, dear,” he whispered. “Goodnight, Harmony.” + </p> + <p> + Frau Schwarz had had two visitors between the hours of coffee and supper + that day. The reason of their call proved to be neither rooms nor pension. + They came to make inquiries. + </p> + <p> + The Frau Schwarz made this out at last, and sat down on the edge of the + bed in the room that had once been Peter's and that still lacked an + occupant. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer had no German; Dr. Jennings very little and that chiefly + medical. There is, however, a sort of code that answers instead of + language frequently, when two or three women of later middle life are + gathered together, a code born of mutual understanding, mutual + disillusion, mutual distrust, a language of outspread hands, raised + eyebrows, portentous shakings of the head. Frau Schwarz, on the edge of + Peter's tub-shaped bed, needed no English to convey the fact that Peter + was a bad lot. Not that she resorted only to the sign language. + </p> + <p> + “The women were also wicked,” she said. “Of a man what does one expect? + But of a woman! And the younger one looked—Herr Gott! She had the + eyes of a saint! The little Georgiev was mad for her. When the three of + them left, disgraced, as one may say, he came to me, he threatened me. The + Herr Schwarz, God rest his soul, was a violent man, but never spoke he so + to me!” + </p> + <p> + “She says,” interpreted Dr. Jennings, “that they were a bad lot—that + the younger one made eyes at the Herr Schwarz!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer drew her ancient sables about her and put a tremulous hand on + the other woman's arm. + </p> + <p> + “What an escape for you!” she said. “If you had gone there to live and + then found the establishment—queer!” + </p> + <p> + From the kitchen of the pension, Olga was listening, an ear to the door. + Behind her, also listening, but less advantageously, was Katrina. + </p> + <p> + “American ladies!” said Olga. “Two, old and fat.” + </p> + <p> + “More hot water!” growled Katrina. “Why do not the Americans stay in their + own country, where the water, I have learned, comes hot from the earth.” + </p> + <p> + Olga, bending forward, opened the door a crack wider. + </p> + <p> + “Sh! They do not come for rooms. They inquire for the Herr Doktor Byrne + and the others!” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Of a certainty.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let me to the door!” + </p> + <p> + “A moment. She tells them everything and more. She says—how she is + wicked, Katrina! She says the Fraulein Harmony was not good, that she sent + them all away. Here, take the door!” + </p> + <p> + Thus it happened that Dr. Jennings and Mrs. Boyer, having shaken off the + dust of a pension that had once harbored three malefactors, and having + retired Peter and Anna and Harmony into the limbo of things best forgotten + or ignored, found themselves, at the corner, confronted by a slovenly girl + in heelless slippers and wearing a knitted shawl over her head. “The Frau + Schwarz is wrong,” cried Olga passionately in Vienna dialect. “They were + good, all of them!” + </p> + <p> + “What in the world—” + </p> + <p> + “And, please, tell me where lives the Fraulein Harmony. The Herr Georgiev + eats not nor sleeps that he cannot find her.” + </p> + <p> + Dr. Jennings was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “She wishes to know where the girl lives,” she interpreted to Mrs. Boyer. + “A man wishes to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally!” said Mrs. Boyer. “Well, don't tell her.” + </p> + <p> + Olga gathered from the tone rather than the words that she was not to be + told. She burst into a despairing appeal in which the Herr Georgiev, + Peter, a necktie Peter had forgotten, open windows, and hot water were + inextricably confused. Dr. Jennings listened, then waved her back with a + gesture. + </p> + <p> + “She says,” she interpreted as they walked on, “that Dr. Peter—by + which I suppose she means Dr. Byrne—has left a necktie, and that + she'll be in hot water if she does not return it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Boyer sniffed. + </p> + <p> + “In love with him, probably, like the others!” she said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + Peter went to Semmering the next morning, tiptoeing out very early and + without breakfast. He went in to cover Jimmy, lying diagonally across his + small bed amid a riot of tossed blankets. The communicating door into + Harmony's room was open. Peter kept his eyes carefully from it, but his + ears were less under control. He could hear her soft breathing. There were + days coming when Peter would stand where he stood then and listen, and + find only silence. + </p> + <p> + He tore himself away at last, closing the outer door carefully behind him + and lighting a match to find his way down the staircase. The Portier was + not awake. Peter had to rouse him, and to stand by while he donned the + trousers which he deemed necessary to the dignity of his position before + he opened the street door. + </p> + <p> + Reluctant as he had been to go, the change was good for Peter. The dawn + grew rosy, promised sunshine, fulfilled its promise. The hurrying crowds + at the depot interested him: he enjoyed his coffee, taken from a bare + table in the station. The horizontal morning sunlight, shining in through + marvelously clean windows, warmed the marble of the floor, made black + shadows beside the heaps of hand luggage everywhere, turned into gold the + hair of a toddling baby venturing on a tour of discovery. The same morning + light, alas! revealed to Peter a break across the toe of one of his shoes. + Peter sighed, then smiled. The baby was catching at the bits of dust that + floated in the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a great wave of happiness overwhelmed Peter. It was a passing + thing, born of nothing, but for the instant that it lasted Peter was a + king. Everything was well. The world was his oyster. Life was his, to make + it what he would—youth and hope and joy. Under the beatific + influence he expanded, grew, almost shone. Youth and hope and joy—that + cometh in the morning. + </p> + <p> + The ecstasy passed away, but without reaction. Peter no longer shone; he + still glowed. He picked up the golden-haired baby and hugged it. He hunted + out a beggar he had passed and gave him five Hellers. He helped a + suspicious old lady with an oilcloth-covered bundle; he called the guard + on the train “son” and forced a grin out of that dignitary. + </p> + <p> + Peter traveled third-class, which was quite comfortable, and no bother + about “Nicht Rauchen” signs. His unreasonable cheerfulness persisted as + far as Gloggnitz. There, with the increasing ruggedness of the scenery and + his first view of the Raxalpe, came recollection of the urgency of + Stewart's last message, of Marie Jedlicka, of the sordid little tragedy + that awaited him at the end of his journey. + </p> + <p> + Peter sobered. Life was rather a mess, after all, he reflected. Love was a + blessing, but it was also a curse. After that he sat back in his corner + and let the mountain scenery take care of itself, while he recalled the + look he had surprised once or twice in Marie's eyes when she looked at + Stewart. It was sad, pitiful. Marie was a clever little thing. If only + she'd had a chance!—Why wasn't he rich enough to help the ones who + needed help. Marie could start again in America, with no one the wiser, + and make her way. + </p> + <p> + “Smart as the devil, these Austrian girls!” Peter reflected. “Poor little + guttersnipe!” + </p> + <p> + The weather was beautiful. The sleet of the previous day in Vienna had + been a deep snowfall on the mountains. The Schwarza was frozen, the castle + of Liechtenstein was gray against a white world. A little pilgrimage + church far below seemed snowed in against the faithful. The third-class + compartment filled with noisy skiing parties. The old woman opened her + oilcloth bundle, and taking a cat out of a box inside fed it a sausage. + </p> + <p> + Up and up, past the Weinzettelwand and the Station Breitenstein, across + the highest viaduct, the Kalte Rinne, and so at last to Semmering. + </p> + <p> + The glow had died at last for Peter. He did not like his errand, was very + vague, indeed, as to just what that errand might be. He was stiff and + rather cold. Also he thought the cat might stifle in the oilcloth, but the + old woman too clearly distrusted him to make it possible to interfere. + Anyhow, he did not know the German for either cat or oilcloth. + </p> + <p> + He had wired Stewart; but the latter was not at the station. This made him + vaguely uneasy, he hardly knew why. He did not know Stewart well enough to + know whether he was punctilious in such matters or not: as a matter of + fact he hardly knew him at all. It was because he had appealed to him that + Peter was there, it being only necessary to Peter to be needed, and he was + anywhere. + </p> + <p> + The Pension Waldheim was well up the mountains. He shouldered his valise + and started up—first long flights of steps through the pines, then a + steep road. Peter climbed easily. Here and there he met groups coming + down, men that he thought probably American, pretty women in “tams” and + sweaters. He watched for Marie, but there was no sign of her. + </p> + <p> + He was half an hour, perhaps, in reaching the Waldheim. As he turned in at + the gate he noticed a sledge, with a dozen people following it, coming + toward him. It was a singularly silent party. Peter, with his hand on the + door-knocker, watched its approach with some curiosity. + </p> + <p> + It stopped, and the men who had been following closed up round it. Even + then Peter did not understand. He did not understand until he saw Stewart, + limp and unconscious, lifted out of the straw and carried toward him. + </p> + <p> + Suicide may be moral cowardice; but it requires physical bravery. And + Marie was not brave. The balcony had attracted her: it opened + possibilities of escape, of unceasing regret and repentance for Stewart, + of publicity that would mean an end to the situation. But every inch of + her soul was craven at the thought. She crept out often and looked down, + and as often drew back, shuddering. To fall down, down on to the tree + tops, to be dropped from branch to branch, a broken thing, and perhaps + even not yet dead—that was the unthinkable thing, to live for a time + and suffer! + </p> + <p> + Stewart was not ignorant of all that went on in her mind. She had + threatened him with the balcony, just as, earlier in the winter, it had + been a window-ledge with which she had frightened him. But there was this + difference, whereas before he had drawn her back from the window and + clapped her into sanity, now he let her alone. At the end of one of their + quarrels she had flung out on to the balcony, and then had watched him + through the opening in the shutter. He had lighted a cigarette! + </p> + <p> + Stewart spent every daylight hour at the hotel, or walking over the + mountain roads, seldom alone with Anita, but always near her. He left + Marie sulking or sewing, as the case might be. He returned in the evening + to find her still sulking, still sewing. + </p> + <p> + But Marie did not sulk all day, or sew. She too was out, never far from + Stewart, always watching. Many times she escaped discovery only by a + miracle, as when she stooped behind an oxcart, pretending to tie her shoe, + or once when they all met face to face, and although she lowered her veil + Stewart must have known her instantly had he not been so intent on helping + Anita over a slippery gutter. + </p> + <p> + She planned a dozen forms of revenge and found them impossible of + execution. Stewart himself was frightfully unhappy. For the first time in + his life he was really in love, with all the humility of the condition. + There were days when he would not touch Anita's hand, when he hardly + spoke, when the girl herself would have been outraged at his conduct had + she not now and then caught him watching her, seen the wretchedness in his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + The form of Marie's revenge was unpremeditated, after all. The light + mountain snow was augmented by a storm; roads were ploughed through early + in the morning, leaving great banks on either side. Sleigh-bells were + everywhere. Coasting parties made the steep roads a menace to the + pedestrian; every up-climbing sleigh carried behind it a string of sleds, + going back to the starting-point. + </p> + <p> + Below the hotel was the Serpentine Coast, a long and dangerous course, + full of high-banked curves, of sudden descents, of long straightaway + dashes through the woodland. Two miles, perhaps three, it wound its + tortuous way down the mountain. Up by the highroad to the crest again, + only a mile or less. Thus it happened that the track was always clear, + except for speeding sleds. No coasters, dragging sleds back up the slide, + interfered. + </p> + <p> + The track was crowded. Every minute a sled set out, sped down the + straightaway, dipped, turned, disappeared. A dozen would be lined up, + waiting for the interval and the signal. And here, watching from the porch + of the church, in the very shadow of the saints, Marie found her revenge. + </p> + <p> + Stewart had given her a little wrist watch. Stewart and Anita were twelfth + in line. By the watch, then, twelve minutes down the mountain-side, + straight down through the trees to a curve that Marie knew well, a bad + curve, only to be taken by running well up on the snowbank. Beyond the + snowbank there was a drop, fifteen feet, perhaps more, into the yard of a + Russian villa. Stewart and Anita were twelfth; a man in a green + stocking-cap was eleventh. The hillside was steep. Marie negotiated it by + running from tree to tree, catching herself, steadying for a second, then + down again. Once she fell and rolled a little distance. There was no time + to think; perhaps had she thought she would have weakened. She had no real + courage, only desperation. + </p> + <p> + As she reached the track the man in the green stocking-cap was in sight. A + minute and a half she had then, not more. She looked about her hastily. A + stone might serve her purpose, almost anything that would throw the sled + out of its course. She saw a tree branch just above the track and dragged + at it frantically. Some one was shouting at her from an upper window of + the Russian villa. She did not hear. Stewart and Anita had made the curve + above and were coming down at frantic speed. Marie stood, her back to the + oncoming rush of the sled, swaying slightly. When she could hear the + singing of the runners she stooped and slid the tree branch out against + the track. + </p> + <p> + She had acted almost by instinct, but with devilish skill. The sled swung + to one side up the snowbank, and launched itself into the air. Marie heard + the thud and the silence that followed it. Then she turned and scuttled + like a hunted thing up the mountain side. + </p> + <p> + Peter put in a bad day. Marie was not about, could not be located. + Stewart, suffering from concussion, lay insensible all day and all of the + night. Peter could find no fracture, but felt it wise to get another + opinion. In the afternoon he sent for a doctor from the Kurhaus and + learned for the first time that Anita had also been hurt—a broken + arm. “Not serious,” said the Kurhaus man. “She is brave, very brave, the + young woman. I believe they are engaged?” Peter said he did not know and + thought very hard. Where was Marie? Not gone surely. Here about him lay + all her belongings, even her purse. + </p> + <p> + Toward evening Stewart showed some improvement. He was not conscious, but + he swallowed better and began to toss about. Peter, who had had a long day + and very little sleep the night before, began to look jaded. He would have + sent for a nurse from the Kurhaus, but he doubted Stewart's ability to + stand any extra financial strain, and Peter could not help any. + </p> + <p> + The time for supper passed, and no Marie. + </p> + <p> + The landlady sent up a tray to Peter, stewed meat and potatoes, a salad, + coffee. Peter sat in a corner with his back to Stewart and ate ravenously. + He had had nothing since the morning's coffee. After that he sat down + again by the bed to watch. There was little to do but watch. + </p> + <p> + The meal had made him drowsy. He thought of his pipe. Perhaps if he got + some fresh air and a smoke! He remembered the balcony. + </p> + <p> + It was there on the balcony that he found Marie, a cowering thing that + pushed his hands away when he would have caught her and broke into + passionate crying. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot! I cannot!” + </p> + <p> + “Cannot what?” demanded Peter gently, watching her. So near was the + balcony rail! + </p> + <p> + “Throw myself over. I've tried, Peter. I cannot!” + </p> + <p> + “I should think not!” said Peter sternly. “Just now when we need you, too! + Come in and don't be a foolish child.” + </p> + <p> + But Marie would not go in. She held back, clinging tight to Peter's big + hand, moaning out in the dialect of the people that always confused him + her story of the day, of what she had done, of watching Stewart brought + back, of stealing into the house and through an adjacent room to the + balcony, of her desperation and her cowardice. + </p> + <p> + She was numb with cold, exhaustion, and hunger, quite childish, helpless. + Peter stood out on the balcony with his arm round her, while the night + wind beat about them, and pondered what was best to do. He thought she + might come in and care for Stewart, at least, until he was conscious. He + could get her some supper. + </p> + <p> + “How can I?” she asked. “I was seen. They are searching for me now. Oh, + Peter! Peter!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is searching for you? Who saw you?” + </p> + <p> + “The people in the Russian villa.” + </p> + <p> + “Did they see your face?” + </p> + <p> + “I wore a veil. I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “Then come in and change your clothes. There is a train down at midnight. + You can take it.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no money.” + </p> + <p> + This raised a delicate question. Marie absolutely refused to take + Stewart's money. She had almost none of her own. And there were other + complications—where was she to go? The family of the injured girl + did not suspect her since they did not know of her existence. She might + get away without trouble. But after that, what? + </p> + <p> + Peter pondered this on the balcony, while Marie in the bedroom was + changing her clothing, soaked with a day in the snow. He came to the + inevitable decision, the decision he knew at the beginning that he was + going to make. + </p> + <p> + “If I could only put it up to Harmony first!” he reflected. “But she will + understand when I tell her. She always understands.” + </p> + <p> + Standing there on the little balcony, with tragedy the thickness of a pine + board beyond him, Peter experienced a bit of the glow of the morning, as + of one who stumbling along in a dark place puts a hand on a friend. + </p> + <p> + He went into the room. Stewart was lying very still and breathing easily. + On her knees beside the bed knelt Marie. At Peter's step she rose and + faced him. + </p> + <p> + “I am leaving him, Peter, for always.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said Peter heartily. “Better for you and better for him.” + </p> + <p> + Marie drew a long breath. “The night train,” she said listlessly, “is an + express. I had forgotten. It is double fare.” + </p> + <p> + “What of that, little sister?” said Peter. “What is a double fare when it + means life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? And there will be + happiness, little sister.” + </p> + <p> + He put his hand in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + The Portier was almost happy that morning. For one thing, he had won + honorable mention at the Schubert Society the night before; for another, + that night the Engel was to sing Mignon, and the Portier had spent his + Christmas tips for a ticket. All day long he had been poring over the + score. + </p> + <p> + “'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen?'” he sang with feeling while + he polished the floors. He polished them with his feet, wearing felt boots + for the purpose, and executing in the doing a sort of ungainly dance—a + sprinkle of wax, right foot forward and back, left foot forward and back, + both feet forward and back in a sort of double shuffle; more wax, more + vigorous polishing, more singing, with longer pauses for breath. “'Knowest + thou the land where the lemon trees bloom?'” he bellowed—sprinkle of + wax, right foot, left foot, any foot at all. Now and then he took the + score from his pocket and pored over it, humming the air, raising his + eyebrows over the high notes, dropping his chin to the low ones. It was a + wonderful morning. Between greetings to neighbors he sang—a bit of + talk, a bit of song. + </p> + <p> + “'Kennst du das Land'—Good-morning, sir—the old Rax wears a + crown. It will snow soon. 'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen'—Ah, + madam the milk Frau, and are the cows frozen up to-day like the pump? No? + Marvelous! Dost thou know that to-night is Mignon at the Opera, and that + the Engel sings? 'Kennst du das Land'—” + </p> + <p> + At eleven came Rosa with her husband, the soldier from Salzburg with one + lung. He was having a holiday from his sentry duty at the hospital, and + the one lung seemed to be a libel, for while the women had coffee together + and a bit of mackerel he sang a very fair bass to the Portier's tenor. + Together they pored over the score, and even on their way to the beer hall + hummed together such bits as they recalled. + </p> + <p> + On one point they differed. The score was old and soiled with much + thumbing. At one point, destroyed long since, the sentry sang A sharp: the + Portier insisted on A natural. They argued together over three Steins of + beer; the waiter, referred to, decided for A flat. It was a serious matter + to have one's teeth set, as one may say, for a natural and then to be + shocked with an unexpected half-tone up or down! It destroyed the + illusion; it disappointed; it hurt. + </p> + <p> + The sentry stuck to the sharp—it was sung so at the Salzburg opera. + The Portier snapped his thumb at the Salzburg opera. Things were looking + serious; they walked back to the locale in silence. The sentry coughed. + Possibly there was something, after all, in the one-lung rumor. + </p> + <p> + It was then that the Portier remembered Harmony. She would know; perhaps + she had the score. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was having a bad morning. She had slept little until dawn, and + Peter's stealthy closing of the outer door had wakened her by its very + caution. After that there had been no more sleep. She had sat up in bed + with her chin in her hands and thought. + </p> + <p> + In the pitiless dawn, with no Peter to restore her to cheerfulness, things + looked black, indeed. To what had she fallen, that first one man and then + another must propose marriage to her to save her. To save her from what? + From what people thought, or—each from the other? + </p> + <p> + Were men so evil that they never trusted each other? McLean had frankly + distrusted Peter, had said so. Or could it be that there was something + about her, something light and frivolous? She had been frivolous. She + always laughed at Peter's foolishnesses. Perhaps that was it. That was it. + They were afraid for her. She had thrown herself on Peter's hands—almost + into his arms. She had made this situation. + </p> + <p> + She must get away, of course. If only she had some one to care for Jimmy + until Peter returned! But there was no one. The Portier's wife was fond of + Jimmy, but not skillful. And suppose he were to wake in the night and call + for her and she would not come. She cried a little over this. After a time + she pattered across the room in her bare feet and got from a bureau drawer + the money she had left. There was not half enough to take her home. She + could write; the little mother might get some for her, but at infinite + cost, infinite humiliation. That would have to be a final, desperate + resort. + </p> + <p> + She felt a little more cheerful when she had had a cup of coffee. Jimmy + wakened about that time, and she went through the details of his morning + toilet with all the brightness she could assume—bath blankets, warm + bath, toenails, finger-nails, fresh nightgown, fresh sheets, and—final + touch of all—a real barber's part straight from crown to brow. After + that ten minutes under extra comforters while the room aired. + </p> + <p> + She hung over the boy that morning in an agony of tenderness—he was + so little, so frail, and she must leave him. Only one thing sustained her. + The boy loved her, but it was Peter he idolized. When he had Peter he + needed nothing else. In some curious process of his childish mind Peter + and Daddy mingled in inextricable confusion. More than once he had + recalled events in the roving life he and his father had led. + </p> + <p> + “You remember that, don't you?” he would say. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I remember,” Peter would reply heartily. + </p> + <p> + “That evening on the steamer when I ate so many raisins.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. And were ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Not ill—not that time. But you said I'd make a good pudding! You + remember that, don't you?” + </p> + <p> + And Peter would recall it all. + </p> + <p> + Peter would be left. That was the girl's comfort. + </p> + <p> + She made a beginning at gathering her things together that morning, while + the boy dozed and the white mice scurried about the little cage. She could + not take her trunk, or Peter would trace it. She would have to carry her + belongings, a few at a time, to wherever she found a room. Then when Peter + came back she could slip away and he would never find her. + </p> + <p> + At noon came the Portier and the sentry, now no longer friends, and rang + the doorbell. Harmony was rather startled. McLean and Mrs. Boyer had been + her only callers, and she did not wish to see either of them. But after a + second ring she gathered her courage in her hands and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + She turned pale when she saw the sentry in his belted blue-gray tunic and + high cap. She thought, of course, that Jimmy had been traced and that now + he would be taken away. If the sentry knew her, however, he kept his face + impassive and merely touched his cap. The Portier stated their errand. + Harmony's face cleared. She even smiled as the Portier extended to her the + thumbed score with its missing corner. What, after all, does it matter + which was right—whether it was A sharp or A natural? What really + matters is that Harmony, having settled the dispute and clinched the + decision by running over the score for a page or two, turned to find the + Portier, ecstatic eyes upturned, hands folded on paunch, enjoying a + delirium of pleasure, and the sentry nowhere in sight. + </p> + <p> + He was discovered a moment later in the doorway of Jimmy's room, where, + taciturn as ever, severe, martial, he stood at attention, shoulders back, + arms at his sides, thumbs in. In this position he was making, with amazing + rapidity, a series of hideous grimaces for the benefit of the little boy + in the bed: marvelous faces they were, in which nose, mouth, and eyes + seemed interchangeable, where features played leapfrog with one another. + When all was over—perhaps when his repertoire was exhausted—the + sentry returned his nose to the center of his face, replaced eyes and + mouth, and wiped the ensemble with a blue cotton handkerchief. Then, still + in silence, he saluted and withdrew, leaving the youngster enraptured, + staring at the doorway. + </p> + <p> + Harmony had decided the approximate location of her room. In the higher + part of the city, in the sixteenth district, there were many unpretentious + buildings. She had hunted board there and she knew. It was far from the + Stadt, far from the fashionable part of town, a neighborhood of small + shops, of frank indigence. There surely she could find a room, and perhaps + in one of the small stores what she failed to secure in the larger, a + position. + </p> + <p> + Rosa having taken her soldier away, Harmony secured the Portier's wife to + sit with Jimmy and spent two hours that afternoon looking about for a + room. She succeeded finally in finding one, a small and wretchedly + furnished bedroom, part of the suite of a cheap dressmaker. The approach + was forbidding enough. One entered a cavelike, cobble-paved court under + the building, filled with wagons, feeding horses, quarrelsome and swearing + teamsters. From the side a stone staircase took off and led, twisting from + one landing cave to another, to the upper floor. + </p> + <p> + Here lived the dressmaker, amid the constant whirring of sewing-machines, + the Babel of workpeople. Harmony, seeking not a home but a hiding-place, + took the room at once. She was asked for no reference. In a sort of agony + lest this haven fail her she paid for a week in advance. The wooden bed, + the cracked mirror over the table, even the pigeons outside on the + windowsill were hers for a week. + </p> + <p> + The dressmaker was friendly, almost garrulous. + </p> + <p> + “I will have it cleaned,” she explained. “I have been so busy: the + masquerade season is on. The Fraulein is American, is she not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “One knows the Americans. They are chic, not like the English. I have some + American customers.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony started. The dressmaker was shrewd. Many people hid in the + sixteenth district. She hastened to reassure the girl. + </p> + <p> + “They will not disturb you. And just now I have but one, a dancer. I shall + have the room cleaned. Good-bye, Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + So far, good. She had a refuge now, one spot that the venom of scandal + could not poison, where she could study and work—work hard, although + there could be no more lessons—one spot where Peter would not have + to protect her, where Peter, indeed, would never find her. This thought, + which should have brought comfort, brought only new misery. Peace seemed + dearly bought all at once; shabby, wholesome, hearty Peter, with his rough + hair and quiet voice, his bulging pockets and steady eyes—she was + leaving Peter forever, exchanging his companionship for that of a row of + pigeons on a window-sill. He would find some one, of course; but who would + know that he liked toast made hard and plenty of butter, or to leave his + bed-clothing loose at the foot, Peter being very long and apt to lop over? + The lopping over brought a tear or two. A very teary and tragic young + heroine, this Harmony, prone to go about for the last day or two with a + damp little handkerchief tucked in her sleeve. + </p> + <p> + She felt her way down the staircase and into the cave below. Fate hangs by + a very slender thread sometimes. If a wagon had not lumbered by as she + reached the lowest step, so that she must wait and thus had time to lower + her veil, she would have been recognized at once by the little Georgiev, + waiting to ascend. But the wagon was there, Harmony lowered her veil, the + little Georgiev, passing a veiled young woman in the gloom, went up the + staircase with even pulses and calm and judicial bearing, up to the tiny + room a floor or two below Harmony's, where he wrote reports to the + Minister of War and mixed them with sonnets—to Harmony. + </p> + <p> + Harmony went back to the Siebensternstrasse, having accomplished what she + had set out to do and being very wretched in consequence. Because she was + leaving the boy so soon she strove to atone for her coming defection by + making it a gala evening. The child was very happy. She tucked him up in + the salon, lighted all the candles, served him the daintiest of suppers + there. She brought in the mice and tied tiny bows on their necks; she + played checkers with him while the supper dishes waited, and went down to + defeat in three hilarious games; and last of all she played to him, joyous + music at first, then slower, drowsier airs, until his heavy head dropped + on his shoulder and she gathered him up in tender arms and carried him to + bed. + </p> + <p> + It was dawn when Marie arrived. Harmony was sleeping soundly when the bell + rang. Her first thought was that Peter had come back—but Peter + carried a key. The bell rang again, and she slipped on the old kimono and + went to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Is it Peter?” she called, hand on knob. + </p> + <p> + “I come from Peter. I have a letter,” in German. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “You do not know me—Marie Jedlicka. Please let me come in.” + </p> + <p> + Bewildered, Harmony opened the door, and like a gray ghost Marie slipped + by her and into the hall. + </p> + <p> + There was a gaslight burning very low; Harmony turned it up and faced her + visitor. She recognized her at once—the girl Dr. Stewart had been + with in the coffee-house. + </p> + <p> + “Something has happened to Peter!” + </p> + <p> + “No. He is well. He sent this to the Fraulein Wells.” + </p> + <p> + “I am the Fraulein Wells.” + </p> + <p> + Marie held out the letter and staggered. Harmony put her in a chair; she + was bewildered, almost frightened. Crisis of some sort was written on + Marie's face. Harmony felt very young, very incapable. The other girl + refused coffee, would not even go into the salon until Peter's letter had + been read. She was a fugitive, a criminal; the Austrian law is severe to + those that harbor criminals. Let Harmony read:— + </p> + <p> + “DEAR HARRY,—Will you forgive me for this and spread the wings of + your splendid charity over this poor child? Perhaps I am doing wrong in + sending her to you, but just now it is all I can think of. If she wants to + talk let her talk. It will probably help her. Also feed her, will you? And + if she cannot sleep, give her one of the blue powders I fixed for Jimmy. + I'll be back later to-day if I can make it. + </p> + <p> + “PETER” + </p> + <p> + Harmony glanced up from the letter. Marie sat drooping in her chair. Her + eyes were sunken in her head. She had recognized her at once, but any + surprise she may have felt at finding Harmony in Peter's apartment was + sunk in a general apathy, a compound of nervous reaction and fatigue. + During the long hours in the express she had worn herself out with fright + and remorse: there was nothing left now but exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was bewildered, but obedient. She went back to the cold kitchen + and lighted a fire. She made Marie as comfortable as she could in the + salon, and then went into her room to dress. There she read the letter + again, and wondered if Peter had gone through life like this, picking up + waifs and strays and shouldering their burdens for them. Decidedly, life + with Peter was full of surprises. + </p> + <p> + She remembered, as she hurried into her clothes; the boys' club back in + America and the spelling-matches. Decidedly, also, Peter was an + occupation, a state of mind, a career. No musician, hoping for a career of + her own, could possibly marry Peter. + </p> + <p> + That was a curious morning in the old lodge of Maria Theresa, while + Stewart in the Pension Waldheim struggled back to consciousness, while + Peter sat beside him and figured on an old envelope the problem of + dividing among four enough money to support one, while McLean ate his + heart out in wretchedness in his hotel. + </p> + <p> + Marie told her story over the early breakfast, sitting with her thin + elbows on the table, her pointed chin in her palms. + </p> + <p> + “And now I am sorry,” she finished. “It has done no good. If it had only + killed her but she was not much hurt. I saw her rise and bend over him.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony was silent. She had no stock of aphorisms for the situation, no + worldly knowledge, only pity. + </p> + <p> + “Did Peter say he would recover?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They will both recover and go to America. And he will marry her.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps Harmony would have been less comfortable, Marie less frank, had + Marie realized that this establishment of Peter's was not on the same + basis as Stewart's had been, or had Harmony divined her thought. + </p> + <p> + The presence of the boy was discovered by his waking. Marie was taken in + and presented. She looked stupefied. Certainly the Americans were a + marvelous people—to have taken into their house and their hearts + this strange child—if he were strange. Marie's suspicious little + slum mind was not certain. + </p> + <p> + In the safety and comfort of the little apartment the Viennese expanded, + cheered. She devoted herself to the boy, telling him strange folk tales, + singing snatches of songs for him. The youngster took a liking to her at + once. It seemed to Harmony, going about her morning routine, that Marie + was her solution and Peter's. + </p> + <p> + During the afternoon she took a package to the branch post-office and + mailed it by parcel-post to the Wollbadgasse. On the way she met Mrs. + Boyer face to face. That lady looked severely ahead, and Harmony passed + her with her chin well up and the eyes of a wounded animal. + </p> + <p> + McLean sent a great box of flowers that day. She put them, for lack of a + vase, in a pitcher beside Jimmy's bed. + </p> + <p> + At dusk a telegram came to say that Stewart was better and that Peter was + on his way down to Vienna. He would arrive at eight. Time was very short + now—seconds flashed by, minutes galloped. Harmony stewed a chicken + for supper, and creamed the breast for Jimmy. She fixed the table, flowers + in the center, the best cloth, Peter's favorite cheese. Six o'clock, + six-thirty, seven; Marie was telling Jimmy a fairy tale and making the + fairies out of rosebuds. The studylamp was lighted, the stove glowing, + Peter's slippers were out, his old smoking-coat, his pipe. + </p> + <p> + A quarter past seven. Peter would be near Vienna now and hungry. If he + could only eat his supper before he learned—but that was impossible. + He would come in, as he always did, and slam the outer door, and open it + again to close it gently, as he always did, and then he would look for + her, going from room to room until he found her—only to-night he + would not find her. + </p> + <p> + She did not say good-bye to Jimmy. She stood in the doorway and said a + little prayer for him. Marie had made the flower fairies on needles, and + they stood about his head on the pillow—pink and yellow and white + elves with fluffy skirts. Then, very silently, she put on her hat and + jacket and closed the outer door behind her. In the courtyard she turned + and looked up. The great chandelier in the salon was not lighted, but from + the casement windows shone out the comfortable glow of Peter's lamp. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + Peter had had many things to think over during the ride down the + mountains. He had the third-class compartment to himself, and sat in a + corner, soft hat over his eyes. Life had never been particularly simple to + Peter—his own life, yes; a matter of three meals a day—he had + had fewer—a roof, clothing. But other lives had always touched him + closely, and at the contact points Peter glowed, fused, amalgamated. Thus + he had been many people—good, indifferent, bad, but all needy. Thus, + also, Peter had committed vicarious crimes, suffered vicarious illnesses, + starved, died, loved—vicariously. + </p> + <p> + And now, after years of living for others, Peter was living at last for + himself—and suffering. + </p> + <p> + Not that he understood exactly what ailed him. He thought he was tired, + which was true enough, having had little sleep for two or three nights. + Also he explained to himself that he was smoking too much, and resolutely—lighted + another cigarette. + </p> + <p> + Two things had revealed Peter's condition to himself: McLean had said: + “You are crazy in love with her.” McLean's statement, lacking subtlety, + had had a certain quality of directness. Even then Peter, utterly + miserable, had refused to capitulate, when to capitulate would have meant + the surrender of the house in the Siebensternstrasse. And the absence from + Harmony had shown him just where he stood. + </p> + <p> + He was in love, crazy in love. Every fiber of his long body glowed with + it, ached with it. And every atom of his reason told him what mad folly it + was, this love. Even if Harmony cared—and at the mere thought his + heart pounded—what madness for her, what idiocy for him! To ask her + to accept the half of—nothing, to give up a career to share his + struggle for one, to ask her to bury her splendid talent and her beauty + under a bushel that he might wave aloft his feeble light! + </p> + <p> + And there was no way out, no royal road to fortune by the route he had + chosen; nothing but grinding work, with a result problematical and years + ahead. There were even no legacies to expect, he thought whimsically. + Peter had known a chap once, struggling along in gynecology, who had had a + fortune left him by a G. P., which being interpreted is Grateful Patient. + Peter's patients had a way of living, and when they did drop out, as + happened now and then, had also a way of leaving Peter an unpaid bill in + token of appreciation; Peter had even occasionally helped to bury them, by + way, he defended himself, of covering up his mistakes. + </p> + <p> + Peter, sitting back in his corner, allowed the wonderful scenery to slip + by unnoticed. He put Harmony the Desirable out of his mind, and took to + calculating on a scrap of paper what could be done for Harmony the + Musician. He could hold out for three months, he calculated, and still + have enough to send Harmony home and to get home himself on a slow boat. + The Canadian lines were cheap. If Jimmy lived perhaps he could take him + along: if not— + </p> + <p> + He would have to put six months' work in the next three. That was not so + hard. He had got along before with less sleep, and thrived on it. Also + there must be no more idle evenings, with Jimmy in the salon propped in a + chair and Harmony playing, the room dark save for the glow from the stove + and for the one candle at Harmony's elbow. + </p> + <p> + All roads lead to Rome. Peter's thoughts, having traveled in a circle, + were back again to Harmony the Desirable—Harmony playing in the + firelight, Harmony Hushed over the brick stove, Harmony paring potatoes + that night in the kitchen when he—Harmony! Harmony! + </p> + <p> + Stewart knew all about the accident and its cause. Peter had surmised as + much when the injured man failed to ask for Marie. + </p> + <p> + He tested him finally by bringing Marie's name into the conversation. + Stewart ignored it, accepted her absence, refused to be drawn. + </p> + <p> + That was at first. During the day, however, as he gained strength, he grew + restless and uneasy. As the time approached for Peter to leave, he was + clearly struggling with himself. The landlady had agreed to care for him + and was bustling about the room. During one of her absences he turned to + Peter. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose Marie hasn't been round?” + </p> + <p> + “She came back last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, poor child.” + </p> + <p> + “She's a devil!” Stewart said, and lay silent. Then: “I saw her shoot that + thing out in front of us, but there was no time—Where is she now?” + </p> + <p> + “Marie? I sent her to Vienna.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart fell back, relieved, not even curious. + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven for that!” he said. “I don't want to see her again. I'd do + something I'd be sorry for. The kindest thing to say for her is that she + was not sane.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Peter gravely, “she was hardly sane.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart caught his steady gaze and glanced away. For him Marie's little + tragedy had been written and erased. He would forget it magnanimously. He + had divided what he had with her, and she had repaid him by attempting his + life. And not only his life, but Anita's. Peter followed his line of + reasoning easily. + </p> + <p> + “It's quite a frequent complication, Stewart,” he said, “but every man to + whom it happens regards himself more or less as a victim. She fell in love + with you, that's all. Her conduct is contrary to the ethics of the game, + but she's been playing poor cards all along.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn't matter, does it?” + </p> + <p> + Stewart had lain back and closed his eyes. No, it didn't matter. A sense + of great relief overwhelmed him. Marie was gone, frightened into hiding. + It was as if a band that had been about him was suddenly loosed: he + breathed deep, he threw out his arms and laughed from sheer reaction. + Then, catching Peter's not particularly approving eyes, he colored. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, Peter!” he said, “you don't know what I've gone through with + that little devil. And now she's gone!” He glanced round the disordered + room, where bandages and medicines crowded toilet articles on the + dressing-table, where one of Marie's small slippers still lay where it had + fallen under the foot of the bed, where her rosary still hung over the + corner of the table. “Ring for the maid, Peter, will you! I've got to get + this junk out of here. Some of Anita's people may come.” + </p> + <p> + During that afternoon ride, while the train clump-clumped down the + mountains, Peter thought of all this. Some of Marie's “junk” was in his + bag; her rosary lay in his breastpocket, along with the pin he had sent + her at Christmas. Peter happened on it, still in its box, which looked as + if it had been cried over. He had brought it with him. He admired it very + much, and it had cost money he could ill afford to spend. + </p> + <p> + It was late when the train drew into the station. Peter, encumbered with + Marie's luggage and his own, lowered his window and added his voice to the + chorus of plaintive calls: “Portier! Portier!” they shouted. “Portier!” + bawled Peter. + </p> + <p> + He was obliged to resort to the extravagance of a taxicab. Possibly a + fiacre would have done as well, but it cost almost as much and was slower. + Moments counted now: a second was an hour, an hour a decade. For he was on + his way to Harmony. Extravagance became recklessness. As soon die for a + sheep as a lamb! He stopped the taxicab and bought a bunch of violets, + stopped again and bought lilies of the valley to combine with the violets, + went out of his way to the American grocery and bought a jar of preserved + fruit. + </p> + <p> + By that time he was laden. The jar of preserves hung in one shabby pocket, + Marie's rosary dangled from another; the violets were buttoned under his + overcoat against the cold. + </p> + <p> + At the very last he held the taxi an extra moment and darted into the + delicatessen shop across the Siebensternstrasse. From there, standing + inside the doorway, he could see the lights in the salon across the way, + the glow of his lamp, the flicker that was the fire. Peter whistled, + stamped his cold feet, quite neglected—in spite of repeated warnings + from Harmony—to watch the Herr Schenkenkaufer weigh the cheese, + accepted without a glance a ten-Kronen piece with a hole in it. + </p> + <p> + “And how is the child to-day?” asked the Herr Schenkenkaufer, covering the + defective gold piece with conversation. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know; I have been away,” said Peter. He almost sang it. + </p> + <p> + “All is well or I would have heard. Wilhelm the Portier was but just now + here.” + </p> + <p> + “All well, of course,” sang Peter, eyes on the comfortable Floor of his + lamp, the flicker that was the fire. “Auf wiedersehen, Herr + Schenkenkaufer.” + </p> + <p> + “Auf wiedersehen, Herr Doktor.” + </p> + <p> + Violets, lilies-of-the-valley, cheese, rosary, luggage—thus Peter + climbed the stairs. The Portier wished to assist him, but Peter declined. + The Portier was noisy. There was to be a moment when Peter, having + admitted himself with extreme caution, would present himself without so + much as a creak to betray him, would stand in a doorway until some one, + Harmony perhaps—ah, Peter!—would turn and see him. She had a + way of putting one slender hand over her heart when she was startled. + </p> + <p> + Peter put down the jar of preserved peaches outside. It was to be a second + surprise. Also he put down the flowers; they were to be brought in last of + all. One surprise after another is a cumulative happiness. Peter did not + wish to swallow all his cake in one bite. + </p> + <p> + For once he did not slam the outer door, although he very nearly did, and + only caught it at the cost of a bruised finger. Inside he listened. There + was no clatter of dishes, no scurrying back and forth from table to stove + in the final excitement of dishing up. There was, however, a highly + agreeable odor of stewing chicken, a crisp smell of baking biscuit. + </p> + <p> + In the darkened hall Peter had to pause to steady himself. For he had a + sudden mad impulse to shout Harmony's name, to hold out his arms, to call + her to him there in the warm darkness, and when she had come, to catch her + to him, to tell his love in one long embrace, his arms about her, his + rough cheek against her soft one. No wonder he grew somewhat dizzy and had + to pull himself together. + </p> + <p> + The silence rather surprised him, until he recalled that Harmony was + probably sewing in the salon, as she did sometimes when dinner was ready + to serve. The boy was asleep, no doubt. He stole along on tiptoe, hardly + breathing, to the first doorway, which was Jimmy's. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was asleep. Round him were the pink and yellow and white flower + fairies with violet heads. Peter saw them and smiled. Then, his eyes + growing accustomed to the light, he saw Marie, face down on the floor, her + head on her arms. Still as she was, Peter knew she was not sleeping, only + fighting her battle over again and losing. + </p> + <p> + Some of the joyousness of his return fled from Peter, never to come back. + The two silent figures were too close to tragedy. Peter, with a long + breath, stole past the door and on to the salon. No Harmony there, but the + great room was warm and cheery. The table was drawn near the stove and + laid for Abendessen. The white porcelain coffee-pot had boiled and + extinguished itself, according to its method, and now gently steamed. + </p> + <p> + On to the kitchen. Much odor of food here, two candles lighted but burning + low, a small platter with money on it, quite a little money—almost + all he had left Harmony when he went away. + </p> + <p> + Peter was dazed at first. Even when Marie, hastily summoned, had + discovered that Harmony's clothing was gone, when a search of the rooms + revealed the absence of her violin and her music, when at last the fact + stared them, incontestable, in the face, Peter refused to accept it. He + sat for a half-hour or even more by the fire in the salon, obstinately + refusing to believe she was gone, keeping the supper warm against her + return. He did not think or reason, he sat and waited, saying nothing, + hardly moving, save when a gust of wind slammed the garden gate. Then he + was all alive, sat erect, ears straining for her hand on the knob of the + outer door. + </p> + <p> + The numbness of the shock passed at last, to be succeeded by alarm. During + all the time that followed, that condition persisted, fright, almost + terror. Harmony alone in the city, helpless, dependent, poverty-stricken. + Harmony seeking employment under conditions Peter knew too well. But with + his alarm came rage. + </p> + <p> + Marie had never seen Peter angry. She shrank from this gaunt and + gray-faced man who raved up and down the salon, questioning the frightened + Portier, swearing fierce oaths, bringing accusation after accusation + against some unnamed woman to whom he applied epithets that Marie's + English luckily did not comprehend. Not a particularly heroic figure was + Peter that night: a frantic, disheveled individual, before whom the + Portier cowered, who struggled back to sanity through a berserk haze and + was liable to swift relapses into fury again. + </p> + <p> + To this succeeded at last the mental condition that was to be Peter's for + many days, hopelessness and alarm and a grim determination to keep on + searching. + </p> + <p> + There were no clues. The Portier made inquiries of all the cabstands in + the neighborhood. Harmony had not taken a cab. The delicatessen seller had + seen her go out that afternoon with a bundle and return without it. She + had been gone only an hour or so. That gave Peter a ray of hope that she + might have found a haven in the neighborhood—until he recalled the + parcel-post. + </p> + <p> + One possibility he clung to: Mrs. Boyer had made the mischief, but she had + also offered the girl a home. She might be at the Boyers'. Peter, flinging + on a hat and without his overcoat, went to the Boyers'. Time was valuable, + and he had wasted an hour, two hours, in useless rage. So he took a + taxicab, and being by this time utterly reckless of cost let it stand + while he interviewed the Boyers. + </p> + <p> + Boyer himself, partially undressed, opened the door to his ring. Peter was + past explanation or ceremonial. + </p> + <p> + “Is Harmony here?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Harmony?” + </p> + <p> + “Harmony Wells. She's disappeared, missing.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said Boyer, alive to the strain in Peter's voice. “I don't + know, I haven't heard anything. I'll ask Mrs. Boyer.” + </p> + <p> + During the interval it took for a whispered colloquy in the bedroom, and + for Mrs. Boyer to don her flannel wrapper, Peter suffered the tortures of + the damned. Whatever Mrs. Boyer had meant to say by way of protest at the + intrusion on the sacred privacy of eleven o'clock and bedtime died in her + throat. Her plump and terraced chin shook with agitation, perhaps with + guilt. Peter, however, had got himself in hand. He told a quiet story; + Boyer listened; Mrs. Boyer, clutching her wrapper about her unstayed + figure, listened. + </p> + <p> + “I thought,” finished Peter, “that since you had offered her a refuge—from + me—she might have come here.” + </p> + <p> + “I offered her a refuge—before I had been to the Pension Schwarz.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Peter slowly. “And what about the Pension Schwarz?” + </p> + <p> + “Need you ask? I learned that you were all put out there. I am obliged to + say, Dr. Byrne, that under the circumstances had the girl come here I + could hardly—Frank, I will speak!—I could hardly have taken + her in.” + </p> + <p> + Peter went white and ducked as from a physical blow, stumbling out into + the hall again. There he thought of something to say in reply, + repudiation, thought better of it, started down the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Boyer followed him helplessly. At the street door, however, he put his + hand on Peter's shoulder. “You know, old man, I don't believe that. These + women—” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Peter simply. “Thank you. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> + <p> + Harmony's only thought had been flight, from Peter, from McLean, from Mrs. + Boyer. She had devoted all her energies to losing herself, to cutting the + threads that bound her to the life in the Siebensternstrasse. She had + drawn all her money, as Peter discovered later. The discovery caused him + even more acute anxiety. The city was full of thieves; poverty and its + companion, crime, lurked on every shadowy staircase of the barracklike + houses, or peered, red-eyed, from every alleyway. + </p> + <p> + And into this city of contrasts—of gray women of the night hugging + gratings for warmth and accosting passers-by with loathsome gestures, of + smug civilians hiding sensuous mouths under great mustaches, of dapper + soldiers to whom the young girl unattended was potential prey, into this + night city of terror, this day city of frightful contrasts, ermine rubbing + elbows with frost-nipped flesh, destitution sauntering along the + fashionable Prater for lack of shelter, gilt wheels of royalty and yellow + wheels of courtesans—Harmony had ventured alone for the second time. + </p> + <p> + And this time there was no Peter Byrne to accost her cheerily in the + twilight and win her by sheer friendliness. She was alone. Her funds were + lower, much lower. And something else had gone—her faith. Mrs. Boyer + had seen to that. In the autumn Harmony had faced the city clear-eyed and + unafraid; now she feared it, met it with averted eyes, alas! understood + it. + </p> + <p> + It was not the Harmony who had bade a brave farewell to Scatchy and the + Big Soprano in the station who fled to her refuge on the upper floor of + the house in the Wollbadgasse. This was a hunted creature, alternately + flushed and pale, who locked her door behind her before she took off her + hat, and who, having taken off her hat and surveyed her hiding-place with + tragic eyes, fell suddenly to trembling, alone there in the gaslight. + </p> + <p> + She had had no plans beyond flight. She had meant, once alone, to think + the thing out. But the room was cold, she had had nothing to eat, and the + single slovenly maid was a Hungarian and spoke no German. The dressmaker + had gone to the Ronacher. Harmony did not know where to find a restaurant, + was afraid to trust herself to the streets alone. She went to bed + supperless, with a tiny picture of Peter and Jimmy and the wooden sentry + under her cheek. + </p> + <p> + The pigeons, cooing on the window-sill, wakened her early. She was + confused at first, got up to see if Jimmy had thrown off his blankets, and + wakened to full consciousness with the sickening realization that Jimmy + was not there. + </p> + <p> + The dressmaker, whose name was Monia Reiff, slept late after her evening + out. Harmony, collapsing with hunger and faintness, waited as long as she + could. Then she put on her things desperately and ventured out. Surely at + this hour Peter would not be searching, and even if he were he would never + think of the sixteenth district. He would make inquiries, of course—the + Pension Schwarz, Boyers', the master's. + </p> + <p> + The breakfast brought back her strength and the morning air gave her + confidence. The district, too, was less formidable than the neighborhood + of the Karntnerstrasse and the Graben. The shops were smaller. The windows + exhibited cheaper goods. There was a sort of family atmosphere about many + of them; the head of the establishment in the doorway, the wife at the + cashier's desk, daughters, cousins, nieces behind the wooden counters. The + shopkeepers were approachable, instead of familiar. Harmony met no + rebuffs, was respectfully greeted and cheerfully listened to. In many + cases the application ended in a general consultation, shopkeeper, wife, + daughters, nieces, slim clerks with tiny mustaches. She got addresses, + followed them up, more consultations, more addresses, but no work. The + reason dawned on her after a day of tramping, during which she kept + carefully away from that part of the city where Peter might be searching + for her. + </p> + <p> + The fact was, of course, that her knowledge of English was her sole asset + as a clerk. And there were few English and no tourists in the sixteenth + district. She was marketing a commodity for which there was no demand. + </p> + <p> + She lunched at a Konditorei, more to rest her tired body than because she + needed food. The afternoon was as the morning. At six o'clock, long after + the midwinter darkness had fallen, she stumbled back to the Wollbadgasse + and up the whitewashed staircase. + </p> + <p> + She had a shock at the second landing. A man had stepped into the angle to + let her pass. A gasjet dared over his head, and she recognized the short + heavy figure and ardent eyes of Georgiev. She had her veil down luckily, + and he gave no sign of recognition. She passed on, and she heard him a + second later descending. But there had been something reminiscent after + all in her figure and carriage. The little Georgiev paused, halfway down, + and thought a moment. It was impossible, of course. All women reminded him + of the American. Had he not, only the day before, followed for two city + blocks a woman old enough to be his mother, merely because she carried a + violin case? But there was something about the girl he had just passed—Bah! + </p> + <p> + A bad week for Harmony followed, a week of weary days and restless nights + when she slept only to dream of Peter—of his hurt and incredulous + eyes when he found she had gone; of Jimmy—that he needed her, was + worse, was dying. More than once she heard him sobbing and wakened to the + cooing of the pigeons on the window-sill. She grew thin and sunken-eyed; + took to dividing her small hoard, half of it with her, half under the + carpet, so that in case of accident all would not be gone. + </p> + <p> + This, as it happened, was serious. One day, the sixth, she came back wet + to the skin from an all-day rain, to find that the carpet bank had been + looted. There was no clue. The stolid Hungarian, startled out of her + lethargy, protested innocence; the little dressmaker, who seemed honest + and friendly, wept in sheer sympathy. The fact remained—half the + small hoard was gone. + </p> + <p> + Two days more, a Sunday and a Monday. On Sunday Harmony played, and + Georgiev in the room below, translating into cipher a recent conference + between the Austrian Minister of War and the German Ambassador, put aside + his work and listened. She played, as once before she had played when life + seemed sad and tragic, the “Humoresque.” Georgiev, hands behind his head + and eyes upturned, was back in the Pension Schwarz that night months ago + when Harmony played the “Humoresque” and Peter stooped outside her door. + The little Bulgarian sighed and dreamed. + </p> + <p> + Harmony, a little sadder, a little more forlorn each day, pursued her + hopeless quest. She ventured into the heart of the Stadt and paid a part + of her remaining money to an employment bureau, to teach English or + violin, whichever offered, or even both. After she had paid they told her + it would be difficult, almost impossible without references. She had + another narrow escape as she was leaving. She almost collided with Olga, + the chambermaid, who, having clashed for the last time with Katrina, was + seeking new employment. On another occasion she saw Marie in the crowd and + was obsessed with a longing to call to her, to ask for Peter, for Jimmy. + That meeting took the heart out of the girl. Marie was white and weary—perhaps + the boy was worse. Perhaps Peter—Her heart contracted. But that was + absurd, of course, Peter was always well and strong. + </p> + <p> + Two things occurred that week, one unexpected, the other inevitable. The + unexpected occurrence was that Monia Reiff, finding Harmony being pressed + for work, offered the girl a situation. The wage was small, but she could + live on it. + </p> + <p> + The inevitable was that she met Georgiev on the stairs without her veil. + </p> + <p> + It was the first day in the workroom. The apprentices were carrying home + boxes for a ball that night. Thread was needed, and quickly. Harmony, who + did odds and ends of sewing, was most easily spared. She slipped on her + jacket and hat and ran down to the shop near by. + </p> + <p> + It was on the return that she met Georgiev coming down. The afternoon was + dark and the staircase unlighted. In the gloom one face was as another. + Georgiev, listening intently, hearing footsteps, drew back into the + embrasure of a window and waited. His swarthy face was tense, expectant. + As the steps drew near, were light feminine instead of stealthy, the + little spy relaxed somewhat. But still he waited, crouched. + </p> + <p> + It was a second before he recognized Harmony, another instant before he + realized his good fortune. She had almost passed. He put out an unsteady + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Fraulein!” + </p> + <p> + “Herr Georgiev!” + </p> + <p> + The little Bulgarian was profoundly stirred. His fervid eyes gleamed. He + struggled against the barrier of language, broke out in passionate Bulgar, + switched to German punctuated with an English word here and there. Made + intelligible, it was that he had found her at last. Harmony held her + spools of thread and waited for the storm of languages to subside. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “But you are not to say you have seen me, Herr Georgiev.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + Harmony colored. + </p> + <p> + “I am—am hiding,” she explained. “Something very uncomfortable + happened and I came here. Please don't say you have seen me.” + </p> + <p> + Georgiev was puzzled at first. She had to explain very slowly, with his + ardent eyes on her. But he understood at last and agreed of course. His + incredulity was turning to certainty. Harmony had actually been in the + same building with him while he sought her everywhere else. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” he said at last, “it was you who played Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + “I surely.” + </p> + <p> + She made a move to pass him, but he held out an imploring hand. + </p> + <p> + “Fraulein, I may see you sometimes?” + </p> + <p> + “We shall meet again, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Fraulein,—with all respect,—sometime perhaps you will walk + out with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I am very busy all day.” + </p> + <p> + “At night, then? For the exercise? I, with all respect, Fraulein!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony was touched. + </p> + <p> + “Sometime,” she consented. And then impulsively: “I am very lonely, Herr + Georgiev.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand, and the little Bulgarian bent over it and kissed it + reverently. The Herr Georgiev's father was a nobleman in his own country, + and all the little spy's training had been to make of a girl in Harmony's + situation lawful prey. But in the spy's glowing heart there was nothing + for Harmony to fear. She knew it. He stood, hat in hand, while she went up + the staircase. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “Fraulein!” anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Was there below at the entrance a tall man in a green velours hat?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw no one there.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + He watched her slender figure ascend, lose itself in the shadows, listened + until she reached the upper floors. Then with a sigh he clapped his hat on + his head and made his cautious way down to the street. There was no man in + a green velours hat below, but the little spy had an uneasy feeling that + eyes watched him, nevertheless. Life was growing complicated for the Herr + Georgiev. + </p> + <p> + Life was pressing very close to Harmony also in those days, a life she had + never touched before. She discovered, after a day or two in the work-room, + that Monia Reiff's business lay almost altogether among the demi-monde. + The sewing-girls, of Marie's type many of them, found in the customers + endless topics of conversation. Some things Harmony was spared, much of + the talk being in dialect. But a great deal of it she understood, and she + learned much that was not spoken. They talked freely of the women, their + clothes, and they talked a great deal about a newcomer, an American + dancer, for whom Monia was making an elaborate outfit. The American's name + was Lillian Le Grande. She was dancing at one of the variety theaters. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was working on a costume for the Le Grande woman—a gold + brocade slashed to the knee at one side and with a fragment of bodice made + of gilt tissue. On the day after her encounter with Georgiev she met her. + </p> + <p> + There was a dispute over the gown, something about the draping. Monia, + flushed with irritation, came to the workroom door and glanced over the + girls. She singled out Harmony finally and called her. + </p> + <p> + “Come and put on the American's gown,” she ordered. “She wishes—Heaven + knows what she wishes!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony went unwillingly. Nothing she had heard of the Fraulein Le Grande + had prepossessed her. Her uneasiness was increased when she found herself + obliged to shed her gown and to stand for one terrible moment before the + little dressmaker's amused eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Thou art very lovely, very chic,” said Monia. The dress added to rather + than relieved Harmony's discomfiture. She donned it in one of the + fitting-rooms, made by the simple expedient of curtaining off a corner of + the large reception room. The slashed skirt embarrassed her; the low cut + made her shrink. Monia was frankly entranced. Above the gold tissue of the + bodice rose Harmony's exquisite shoulders. Her hair was gold; even her + eyes looked golden. The dressmaker, who worshiped beauty, gave a pull + here, a pat there. If only all women were so beautiful in the things she + made! + </p> + <p> + She had an eye for the theatrical also. She posed Harmony behind the + curtain, arranged lights, drew down the chiffon so that a bit more of the + girl's rounded bosom was revealed. Then she drew the curtain aside and + stood smiling. + </p> + <p> + Le Grande paid the picture the tribute of a second's silence. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “Exquisite!” she said in English. Then in halting German: “Do not change a + line. It is perfect.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony must walk in the gown, turn, sit. Once she caught a glimpse of + herself and was startled. She had been wearing black for so long, and now + this radiant golden creature was herself. She was enchanted and abashed. + The slash in the skirt troubled her: her slender leg had a way of + revealing itself. + </p> + <p> + The ordeal was over at last. The dancer was pleased. She ordered another + gown. Harmony, behind the curtain, slipped out of the dress and into her + own shabby frock. On the other side of the curtain the dancer was talking. + Her voice was loud, but rather agreeable. She smoked a cigarette. Scraps + of chatter came to Harmony, and once a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “That is too pink—something more delicate.” + </p> + <p> + “Here is a shade; hold it to your cheek.” + </p> + <p> + “I am a bad color. I did not sleep last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Still no news, Fraulein?” + </p> + <p> + “None. He has disappeared utterly. That isn't so bad, is it? I could use + more rouge.” + </p> + <p> + “It is being much worn. It is strange, is it not, that a child could be + stolen from the hospital and leave no sign!” + </p> + <p> + The dancer laughed a mirthless laugh. Her voice changed, became nasal, + full of venom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they know well enough,” she snapped. “Those nurses know, and there's + a pig of a red-bearded doctor—I'd like to poison him. Separating + mother and child! I'm going to find him, if only to show them they are not + so smart after all.” + </p> + <p> + In her anger she had lapsed into English. Harmony, behind her curtain, had + clutched at her heart. Jimmy's mother! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + Jimmy was not so well, although Harmony's flight had had nothing to do + with the relapse. He had found Marie a slavishly devoted substitute, and + besides Peter had indicated that Harmony's absence was purely temporary. + But the breaking-up was inevitable. All day long the child lay in the + white bed, apathetic but sleepless. In vain Marie made flower fairies for + his pillow, in vain the little mice, now quite tame, played hide-and-seek + over the bed, in vain Peter paused long enough in his frantic search for + Harmony to buy colored postcards and bring them to him. + </p> + <p> + He was contented enough; he did not suffer at all; and he had no + apprehension of what was coming. He asked for nothing, tried obediently to + eat, liked to have Marie in the room. But he did not beg to be taken into + the salon, as he once had done. There was a sort of mental confusion also. + He liked Marie to read his father's letters; but as he grew weaker the + occasional confusing of Peter with his dead father became a fixed idea. + Peter was Daddy. + </p> + <p> + Peter took care of him at night. He had moved into Harmony's adjacent room + and dressed there. But he had never slept in the bed. At night he put on + his shabby dressing-gown and worn slippers and lay on a haircloth sofa at + the foot of Jimmy's bed—lay but hardly slept, so afraid was he that + the slender thread of life might snap when it was drawn out to its + slenderest during the darkest hours before the dawn. More than once in + every night Peter rose and stood, hardly breathing, with the tiny lamp in + his hand, watching for the rise and fall of the boy's thin little chest. + Peter grew old these days. He turned gray over the ears and developed + lines about his mouth that never left him again. He felt gray and old, and + sometimes bitter and hard also. The boy's condition could not be helped: + it was inevitable, hopeless. But the thing that was eating his heart out + had been unnecessary and cruel. + </p> + <p> + Where was Harmony? When it stormed, as it did almost steadily, he wondered + how she was sheltered; when the occasional sun shone he hoped it was + bringing her a bit of cheer. Now and then, in the night, when the lamp + burned low and gusts of wind shook the old house, fearful thoughts came to + him—the canal, with its filthy depths. Daylight brought reason, + however. Harmony had been too rational, too sane for such an end. + </p> + <p> + McLean was Peter's great support in those terrible days. He was young and + hopeful. Also he had money. Peter could not afford to grease the machinery + of the police service; McLean could and did. In Berlin Harmony could not + have remained hidden for two days. In Vienna, however, it was different. + Returns were made to the department, but irregularly. An American music + student was missing. There were thousands of American music students in + the city: one fell over them in the coffee-houses. McLean offered a reward + and followed up innumerable music students. + </p> + <p> + The alternating hope and despair was most trying. Peter became old and + haggard; the boy grew thin and white. But there was this difference, that + with Peter the strain was cumulative, hour on hour, day on day. With + McLean each night found him worn and exhausted, but each following morning + he went to work with renewed strength and energy. Perhaps, after all, the + iron had not struck so deep into his soul. With Peter it was a + life-and-death matter. + </p> + <p> + Clinics and lectures had begun again, but he had no heart for work. The + little household went on methodically. Marie remained; there had seemed + nothing else to do. She cooked Peter's food—what little he would + eat; she nursed Jimmy while Peter was out on the long search; and she kept + the apartment neat. She was never intrusive, never talkative. Indeed, she + seemed to have lapsed into definite silence. She deferred absolutely to + Peter, adored him, indeed, from afar. She never ate with him, in spite of + his protests. + </p> + <p> + The little apartment was very quiet. Where formerly had been music and + Harmony's soft laughter, where Anna Gates had been wont to argue with + Peter in loud, incisive tones, where even the prisms of the chandelier had + once vibrated in response to Harmony's violin, almost absolute silence now + reigned. Even the gate, having been repaired, no longer creaked, and the + loud altercations between the Portier and his wife had been silenced out + of deference to the sick child. + </p> + <p> + On the day that Harmony, in the gold dress, had discovered Jimmy's mother + in the American dancer Peter had had an unusually bad day. McLean had sent + him a note by messenger early in the morning, to the effect that a young + girl answering Harmony's description had been seen in the park at + Schonbrunn and traced to an apartment near by. + </p> + <p> + Harmony had liked Schonbrunn, and it seemed possible. They had gone out + together, McLean optimistic, Peter afraid to hope. And it had been as he + feared—a pretty little violin student, indeed, who had been washing + her hair, and only opened the door an inch or two. + </p> + <p> + McLean made a lame apology, Peter too sick with disappointment to speak. + Then back to the city again. + </p> + <p> + He had taken to making a daily round, to the master's, to the Frau + Professor Bergmeister's, along the Graben and the Karntnerstrasse, ending + up at the Doctors' Club in the faint hope of a letter. Wrath still + smouldered deep in Peter; he would not enter a room at the club if Mrs. + Boyer sat within. He had had a long hour with Dr. Jennings, and left that + cheerful person writhing in abasement. And he had held a stormy interview + with the Frau Schwarz, which left her humble for a week, and exceedingly + nervous, being of the impression from Peter's manner that in the event of + Harmony not turning up an American gunboat would sail up the right arm of + the Danube and bombard the Pension Schwarz. + </p> + <p> + Schonbrunn having failed them, McLean and, Peter went back to the city in + the street-car, neither one saying much. Even McLean's elasticity was + deserting him. His eyes, from much peering into crowds, had taken on a + strained, concentrated look. + </p> + <p> + Peter was shabbier than ever beside the other man's ultrafashionable + dress. He sat, bent forward, his long arms dangling between his knees, his + head down. Their common trouble had drawn the two together, or had drawn + McLean close to Peter, as if he recognized that there were degrees in + grief and that Peter had received almost a death-wound. His old rage at + Peter had died. Harmony's flight had proved the situation as no amount of + protestation would have done. The thing now was to find the girl; then he + and Peter would start even, and the battle to the best man. + </p> + <p> + They had the car almost to themselves. Peter had not spoken since he sat + down. McLean was busy over a notebook, in which he jotted down from day to + day such details of their search as might be worth keeping. Now and then + he glanced at Peter as if he wished to say something, hesitated, fell to + work again over the notebook. Finally he ventured. + </p> + <p> + “How's the boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so well to-day. I'm having a couple of men in to see him to-night. He + doesn't sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Not much. He's on my mind, of course.” + </p> + <p> + That and other things, Peter. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think—wouldn't it be better to have a nurse. You can't go + like this all day and be up all night, you know. And Marie has him most of + the day.” McLean, of course, had known Marie before. “The boy ought to + have a nurse, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn't move without my hearing him.” + </p> + <p> + “That's an argument for me. Do you want to get sick?” + </p> + <p> + Peter turned a white face toward McLean, a face in which exasperation + struggled with fatigue. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, boy,” he rasped, “don't you suppose I'd have a nurse if I + could afford it?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you let me help? I'd like to do something. I'm a useless cub in a + sick-room, but I could do that. Who's the woman he liked in the hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Nurse Elisabet. I don't know, Mac. There's no reason why I shouldn't let + you help, I suppose. It hurts, of course, but—if he would be happier—” + </p> + <p> + “That's settled, then,” said McLean. “Nurse Elisabet, if she can come. And—look + here, old man. I 've been trying to say this for a week and haven't had + the nerve. Let me help you out for a while. You can send it back when you + get it, any time, a year or ten years. I'll not miss it.” + </p> + <p> + But Peter refused. He tempered the refusal in his kindly way. + </p> + <p> + “I can't take anything now,” he said. “But I'll remember it, and if things + get very bad I'll come to you. It isn't costing much to live. Marie is a + good manager, almost as good as—Harmony was.” This with difficulty. + He found it always hard to speak of Harmony. His throat seemed to close on + the name. + </p> + <p> + That was the best McLean could do, but he made a mental reservation to see + Marie that night and slip her a little money. Peter need never know, would + never notice. + </p> + <p> + At a cross-street the car stopped, and the little Bulgarian, Georgiev, got + on. He inspected the car carefully before he came in from the platform, + and sat down unobtrusively in a corner. Things were not going well with + him either. His small black eyes darted from face to face suspiciously, + until they came to a rest on Peter. + </p> + <p> + It was Georgiev's business to read men. Quickly he put together the bits + he had gathered from Harmony on the staircase, added to them Peter's + despondent attitude, his strained face, the abstraction which required a + touch on the arm from his companion when they reached their destination, + recalled Peter outside the door of Harmony's room in the Pension Schwarz—and + built him a little story that was not far from the truth. + </p> + <p> + Peter left the car without seeing him. It was the hour of the promenade, + when the Ring and the larger business streets were full of people, when + Demel's was thronged with pretty women eating American ices, with military + men drinking tea and nibbling Austrian pastry, the hour when the flower + women along the Stephansplatz did a rousing business in roses, when + sterile women burned candles before the Madonna in the Cathedral, when the + lottery did the record business of the day. + </p> + <p> + It was Peter's forlorn hope that somewhere among the crowd he might happen + on Harmony. For some reason he thought of her always as in a crowd, with + people close, touching her, men staring at her, following her. He had + spent a frightful night in the Opera, scanning seat after seat, not so + much because he hoped to find her as because inaction was intolerable. + </p> + <p> + And so, on that afternoon, he made his slow progress along the + Karntnerstrasse, halting now and then to scrutinize the crowd. He even + peered through the doors of shops here and there, hoping while he feared + that the girl might be seeking employment within, as she had before in the + early days of the winter. + </p> + <p> + Because of his stature and powerful physique, and perhaps, too, because of + the wretchedness in his eyes, people noticed him. There was one place + where Peter lingered, where a new building was being erected, and where + because of the narrowness of the passage the dense crowd was thinned as it + passed. He stood by choice outside a hairdresser's window, where a + brilliant light shone on each face that passed. + </p> + <p> + Inside the clerks had noticed him. Two of them standing together by the + desk spoke of him: “He is there again, the gray man!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, so! But, yes, there is his back!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor one, it is the Fraulein Engel he waits to see, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “More likely Le Grande, the American. He is American.” + </p> + <p> + “He is Russian. Look at his size.” + </p> + <p> + “But his shoes!” triumphantly. “They are American, little one.” + </p> + <p> + The third girl had not spoken; she was wrapping in tissue a great golden + rose made for the hair. She placed it in a box carefully. + </p> + <p> + “I think he is of the police,” she said, “or a spy. There is much talk of + war.” + </p> + <p> + “Foolishness! Does a police officer sigh always? Or a spy have such + sadness in his face? And he grows thin and white.” + </p> + <p> + “The rose, Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk who had wrapped up the flower held it out to the customer. The + customer, however, was not looking. She was gazing with strange intentness + at the back of a worn gray overcoat. Then with a curious clutch at her + heart she went white. Harmony, of course, Harmony come to fetch the golden + rose that was to complete Le Grande's costume. + </p> + <p> + She recovered almost at once and made an excuse to leave by another exit. + </p> + <p> + She took a final look at the gray sleeve that was all she could see of + Peter, who had shifted a bit, and stumbled out into the crowd, walking + along with her lip trembling under her veil, and with the slow and steady + ache at her heart that she had thought she had stilled for good. + </p> + <p> + It had never occurred to Harmony that Peter loved her. He had proposed to + her twice, but that had been in each case to solve a difficulty for her. + And once he had taken her in his arms, but that was different. Even then + he had not said he loved her—had not even known it, to be exact. Nor + had Harmony realized what Peter meant to her until she had put him out of + her life. + </p> + <p> + The sight of the familiar gray coat, the scrap of conversation, so + enlightening as to poor Peter's quest, that Peter was growing thin and + white, made her almost reel. She had been too occupied with her own + position to realize Peter's. With the glimpse of him came a great longing + for the house on the Siebensternstrasse, for Jimmy's arms about her neck, + for the salon with the lamp lighted and the sleet beating harmlessly + against the casement windows, for the little kitchen with the brick stove, + for Peter. + </p> + <p> + Doubts of the wisdom of her course assailed her. But to go back meant, at + the best, adding to Peter's burden of Jimmy and Marie, meant the old + situation again, too, for Marie most certainly did not add to the + respectability of the establishment. And other doubts assailed her. What + if Jimmy were not so well, should die, as was possible, and she had not + let his mother see him! + </p> + <p> + Monia Reiff was very busy that day. Harmony did not leave the workroom + until eight o'clock. During all that time, while her slim fingers worked + over fragile laces and soft chiffons, she was seeing Jimmy as she had seen + him last, with the flower fairies on his pillow, and Peter, keeping watch + over the crowd in the Karntnerstrasse, looking with his steady eyes for + her. + </p> + <p> + No part of the city was safe for a young girl after night, she knew; the + sixteenth district was no better than the rest, rather worse in places. + But the longing to see the house on the Siebensternstrasse grew on her, + became from an ache a sharp and insistent pain. She must go, must see once + again the comfortable glow of Peter's lamp, the flicker that was the fire. + </p> + <p> + She ate no supper. She was too tired to eat, and there was the pain. She + put on her wraps and crept down the whitewashed staircase. + </p> + <p> + The paved courtyard below was to be crossed and it was poorly lighted. She + achieved the street, however, without molestation. To the street-car was + only a block, but during that block she was accosted twice. She was white + and frightened when she reached the car. + </p> + <p> + The Siebensternstrasse at last. The street was always dark; the + delicatessen shop was closed, but in the wild-game store next a light was + burning low, and a flame flickered before the little shrine over the money + drawer. The gameseller was a religious man. + </p> + <p> + The old stucco house dominated the neighborhood. From the time she left + the car Harmony saw it, its long flat roof black against the dark sky, its + rows of unlighted windows, its long wall broken in the center by the gate. + Now from across the street its whole facade lay before her. Peter's lamp + was not lighted, but there was a glow of soft firelight from the salon + windows. The light was not regular—it disappeared at regular + intervals, was blotted out. Harmony knew what that meant. Some one beyond + range of where she stood was pacing the floor, back and forward, back and + forward. When he was worried or anxious Peter always paced the door. + </p> + <p> + She did not know how long she stood there. One of the soft rains was + falling, or more accurately, condensing. The saturated air was hardly + cold. She stood on the pavement unmolested, while the glow died lower and + lower, until at last it was impossible to trace the pacing figure. No one + came to any of the windows. The little lamp before the shrine in the + wild-game shop burned itself out; the Portier across the way came to the + door, glanced up at the sky and went in. Harmony heard the rattle of the + chain as it was stretched across the door inside. + </p> + <p> + Not all the windows of the suite opened on the street. Jimmy's windows—and + Peter's—opened toward the back of the house, where in a brick-paved + courtyard the wife of the Portier hung her washing, and where the Portier + himself kept a hutch of rabbits. A wild and reckless desire to see at + least the light from the child's room possessed Harmony. Even the light + would be something; to go like this, to carry with her only the memory of + a dark looming house without cheer was unthinkable. The gate was never + locked. If she but went into the garden and round by the spruce tree to + the back of the house, it would be something. + </p> + <p> + She knew the garden quite well. Even the darkness had no horror for her. + Little Scatchy had had a habit of leaving various articles on her + window-sill and of instigating searches for them at untimely hours of + night. Once they had found her hairbrush in the rabbit hutch! So Harmony, + ashamed but unalarmed, made her way by the big spruce to the corner of the + old lodge and thus to the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + Ah, this was better! Lights all along the apartment floor and moving + shadows; on Jimmy's window-sill a jar of milk. And voices—some one + was singing. + </p> + <p> + Peter was singing, droning softly, as one who puts a drowsy child to + sleep. Slower and slower, softer and softer, over and over, the little + song Harmony had been wont to sing:— + </p> + <p> + “Ah well! For us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes. + And in the—hereafter—angels may + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Roll—the—stone—from—its—grave—away.” + </pre> + <p> + Slower and slower, softer and softer, until it died away altogether. + Peter, in his old dressing-gown, came to the window and turned down the + gaslight beside it to a blue point. Harmony did not breathe. For a minute, + two minutes, he stood there looking out. Far off the twin clocks of the + Votivkirche struck the hour. All about lay the lights of the old city, so + very old, so wise, so cunning, so cold. + </p> + <p> + Peter stood looking out, as he had each night since Harmony went away. + Each night he sang the boy to sleep, turned down the light and stood by + the window. And each night he whispered to the city that sheltered Harmony + somewhere, what he had whispered to the little sweater coat the night + before he went away:— + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, dear. Good-night, Harmony.” + </p> + <p> + The rabbits stirred uneasily in the hutch; a passing gust shook the great + tree overhead and sent down a sharp shower on to the bricks below. Peter + struck a match and lit his pipe; the flickering light illuminated his + face, his rough hair, his steady eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Peter,” whispered Harmony. “Good-night, dear.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> + <p> + Walter Stewart had made an uncomplicated recovery, helped along by relief + at the turn events had taken. In a few days he was going about again, weak + naturally, rather handsomer than before because a little less florid. But + the week's confinement had given him an opportunity to think over many + things. Peter had set him thinking, on the day when he had packed up the + last of Marie's small belongings and sent them down to Vienna. + </p> + <p> + Stewart, lying in bed, had watched him. “Just how much talk do you suppose + this has made, Byrne?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't an idea. Some probably. The people in the Russian villa saw it, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart's brows contracted. + </p> + <p> + “Damnation! Then the hotel has it, of course!” + </p> + <p> + “Probably.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart groaned. Peter closed Marie's American trunk of which she had been + so proud, and coming over looked down at the injured man. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think you'd better tell the girl all about it?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “I know, of course, it wouldn't be easy, but—you can't get away with + it, Stewart. That's one way of looking at it. There's another.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” + </p> + <p> + “Starting with a clean slate. If she's the sort you want to marry, and not + a prude, she'll understand, not at first, but after she gets used to it.” + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn't understand in a thousand years.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'd better not marry her. You know, Stewart, I have an idea that + women imagine a good many pretty rotten things about us, anyhow. A + sensible girl would rather know the truth and be done with it. What a man + has done with his life before a girl—the right girl—comes into + it isn't a personal injury to her, since she wasn't a part of his life + then. You know what I mean. But she has a right to know it before she + chooses.” + </p> + <p> + “How many would choose under those circumstances?” he jibed. + </p> + <p> + Peter smiled. “Quite a few,” he said cheerfully. “It's a wrong system, of + course; but we can get a little truth out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't get away with it” stuck in Stewart's mind for several days. It + was the one thing Peter said that did stick. And before Stewart had + recovered enough to be up and about he had made up his mind to tell Anita. + In his mind he made quite a case for himself; he argued the affair against + his conscience and came out victorious. + </p> + <p> + Anita's party had broken up. The winter sports did not compare, they + complained, with St. Moritz. They disliked German cooking. Into the + bargain the weather was not good; the night's snows turned soft by midday; + and the crowds that began to throng the hotels were solid citizens, not + the fashionables of the Riviera. Anita's arm forbade her traveling. In the + reassembling of the party she went to the Kurhaus in the valley below the + pension with one of the women who wished to take the baths. + </p> + <p> + It was to the Kurhaus, then, that Stewart made his first excursion after + the accident. He went to dinner. Part of the chaperon's treatment called + for an early retiring hour, which was highly as he had wished it and + rather unnerving after all. A man may decide that a dose of poison is the + remedy for all his troubles, but he does not approach his hour with any + hilarity. Stewart was a stupid dinner guest, ate very little, and looked + haggard beyond belief when the hour came for the older woman to leave. + </p> + <p> + He did not lack courage however. It was his great asset, physical and + mental rather than moral, but courage nevertheless. The evening was quiet, + and they elected to sit on the balcony outside Anita's sitting room, the + girl swathed in white furs and leaning back in her steamer chair. + </p> + <p> + Below lay the terrace of the Kurhaus, edged with evergreen trees. Beyond + and far below that was the mountain village, a few scattered houses along + a frozen stream. The townspeople retired early; light after light was + extinguished, until only one in the priest's house remained. A train crept + out of one tunnel and into another, like a glowing worm crawling from + burrow to burrow. + </p> + <p> + The girl felt a change in Stewart. During the weeks he had known her there + had been a curious restraint in his manner to her. There were times when + an avowal seemed to tremble on his lips, when his eyes looked into hers + with the look no women ever mistakes; the next moment he would glance + away, his face would harden. They were miles apart. And perhaps the + situation had piqued the girl. Certainly it had lost nothing for her by + its unusualness. + </p> + <p> + To-night there was a difference in the man. His eyes met hers squarely, + without evasion, but with a new quality, a searching, perhaps, for + something in her to give him courage. The girl had character, more than + ordinary decision. It was what Stewart admired in her most, and the thing, + of course, that the little Marie had lacked. Moreover, Anita, barely + twenty, was a woman, not a young girl. Her knowledge of the world, not so + deep as Marie's, was more comprehensive. Where Marie would have been + merciful, Anita would be just, unless she cared for him. In that case she + might be less than just, or more. + </p> + <p> + Anita in daylight was a pretty young woman, rather incisive of speech, + very intelligent, having a wit without malice, charming to look at, keenly + alive. Anita in the dusk of the balcony, waiting to hear she knew not + what, was a judicial white goddess, formidably still, frightfully + potential. Stewart, who had embraced many women, did not dare a finger on + her arm. + </p> + <p> + He had decided on a way to tell the girl the story—a preamble about + his upbringing, which had been indifferent, his struggle to get to Vienna, + his loneliness there, all leading with inevitable steps to Marie. From + that, if she did not utterly shrink from him, to his love for her. + </p> + <p> + It was his big hour, that hour on the balcony. He was reaching, through + love, heights of honesty he had never scaled before. But as a matter of + fact he reversed utterly his order of procedure. The situation got him, + this first evening absolutely alone with her. That and her nearness, and + the pathos of her bandaged, useless arm. Still he had not touched her. + </p> + <p> + The thing he was trying to do was more difficult for that. General + credulity to the contrary, men do not often make spoken love first. How + many men propose marriage to their women across the drawing-room or from + chair to chair? Absurd! The eyes speak first, then the arms, the lips + last. The woman is in his arms before he tells his love. It is by her + response that he gauges his chances and speaks of marriage. Actually the + thing is already settled; tardy speech only follows on swift instinct. + Stewart, wooing as men woo, would have taken the girl's hand, gained an + encouragement from it, ventured to kiss it, perhaps, and finding no rebuff + would then and there have crushed her to him; What need of words? They + would follow in due time, not to make a situation but to clarify it. + </p> + <p> + But he could not woo as men woo. The barrier of his own weakness stood + between them and must be painfully taken down. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid this is stupid for you,” said Anita out of the silence. “Would + you like to go to the music-room?” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid. I was thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Of what?” Encouragement this, surely. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking how you had come into my life, and stirred it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Really? I?” + </p> + <p> + “You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “How did I stir it up?” + </p> + <p> + “That's hardly the way I meant to put it. You've changed everything for + me. I care for you—a very great deal.” + </p> + <p> + He was still carefully in hand, his voice steady. And still he did not + touch her. Other men had made love to her, but never in this fashion, or + was he making love? + </p> + <p> + “I'm very glad you like me.” + </p> + <p> + “Like you!” Almost out of hand that time. The thrill in his voice was + unmistakable. “It's much more than that, Anita, so much more that I'm + going to try to do a hideously hard thing. Will you help a little?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if I can.” She was stirred, too, and rather frightened. + </p> + <p> + Stewart drew his chair nearer to her and sat forward, his face set and + dogged. + </p> + <p> + “Have you any idea how you were hurt? Or why?” + </p> + <p> + “No. There's a certain proportion of accidents that occur at all these + places, isn't there?” + </p> + <p> + “This was not an accident.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + “The branch of a tree was thrown out in front of the sled to send us over + the bank. It was murder, if intention is crime.” + </p> + <p> + After a brief silence— + </p> + <p> + “Somebody who wished to kill you, or me?” + </p> + <p> + “Both of us, I believe. It was done by a woman—a girl, Anita. A girl + I had been living with.” + </p> + <p> + A brutal way to tell her, no doubt, but admirably courageous. For he was + quivering with dread when he said it—the courage of the man who + faces a cannon. And here, where a less-poised woman would have broken into + speech, Anita took the refuge of her kind and was silent. Stewart watched + her as best he could in the darkness, trying to gather further courage to + go on. He could not see her face, but her fingers, touching the edge of + the chair, quivered. + </p> + <p> + “May I tell you the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think I want to hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to condemn me unheard?” + </p> + <p> + “There isn't anything you can say against the fact?” + </p> + <p> + But there was much to say, and sitting there in the darkness he made his + plea. He made no attempt to put his case. He told what had happened + simply; he told of his loneliness and discomfort. And he emphasized the + lack of sentiment that prompted the arrangement. + </p> + <p> + Anita spoke then for the first time: “And when you tried to terminate it + she attempted to kill you!” + </p> + <p> + “I was acting the beast. I brought her up here, and then neglected her for + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was hardly only a business arrangement for her.” + </p> + <p> + “It was at first. I never dreamed of any thing else. I swear that, Anita. + But lately, in the last month or two, she—I suppose I should have + seen that she—” + </p> + <p> + “That she had fallen in love with you. How old is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Nineteen.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden memory came to Anita, of a slim young girl, who had watched her + with wide, almost childish eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Then it was she who was in the compartment with you on the train coming + up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she now?” + </p> + <p> + “In Vienna. I have not heard from her. Byrne, the chap who came up to see + me after the—after the accident, sent her away. I think he's looking + after her. I haven't heard from him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you tell me all this?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I love you, Anita. I want you to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “What! After that?” + </p> + <p> + “That, or something similar, is in many men's lives. They don't tell it, + that's the difference. I 'm not taking any credit for telling you this. + I'm ashamed to the bottom of my soul, and when I look at your bandaged arm + I'm suicidal. Peter Byrne urged me to tell you. He said I couldn't get + away with it; some time or other it would come out. Then he said something + else. He said you'd probably understand, and that if you married me it was + better to start with a clean slate.” + </p> + <p> + No love, no passion in the interview now. A clear statement of fact, an + offer—his past against hers, his future with hers. Her hand was + steady now. The light in the priest's house had been extinguished. The + chill of the mountain night penetrated Anita's white furs; and set her—or + was it the chill?—to shivering. + </p> + <p> + “If I had not told you, would you have married me?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. I'll be honest, too. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I am the same man you would have married. Only—more honest.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot argue about it. I am tired and cold.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart glanced across the valley to where the cluster of villas hugged + the mountain-side There was a light in his room; outside was the little + balcony where Marie had leaned against the railing and looked down, down. + Some of the arrogance of his new virtue left the man. He was suddenly + humbled. For the first time he realized a part of what Marie had endured + in that small room where the light burned. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little Marie!” he said softly. + </p> + <p> + The involuntary exclamation did more for him than any plea he could have + made. Anita rose and held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Go and see her,” she said quietly. “You owe her that. We'll be leaving + here in a day or so and I'll not see you again. But you've been honest, + and I will be honest, too. I—I cared a great deal, too.” + </p> + <p> + “And this has killed it?” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly comprehend it yet. I shall have to have time to think.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you are going away—I'm afraid to leave you. You'll think + this thing over, alone, and all the rules of life you've been taught will + come—” + </p> + <p> + “Please, I must think. I will write you, I promise.” + </p> + <p> + He caught her hand and crushed it between both of his. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you would rather I did not kiss you?” humbly. + </p> + <p> + “I do not want you to kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + He released her hand and stood looking down at her in the darkness. If he + could only have crushed her to him, made her feel the security of his + love, of his sheltering arms! But the barrier of his own building was + between them. His voice was husky. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to try to remember, past what I have told you, to the thing + that concerns us both—I love you. I never loved the other woman. I + never pretended I loved her. And there will be nothing more like that.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall try to remember.” + </p> + <p> + Anita left Semmering the next day, against the protests of the doctor and + the pleadings of the chaperon. She did not see Stewart again. But before + she left, with the luggage gone and the fiacre at the door, she went out + on the terrace, and looked across to the Villa Waldheim, rising from among + its clustering trees. Although it was too far to be certain, she thought + she saw the figure of a man on the little balcony standing with folded + arms, gazing across the valley to the Kurhaus. + </p> + <p> + Having promised to see Marie, Stewart proceeded to carry out his promise + in his direct fashion. He left Semmering the evening of the following day, + for Vienna. The strain of the confession was over, but he was a victim of + sickening dread. To one thing only he dared to pin his hopes. Anita had + said she cared, cared a great deal. And, after all, what else mattered? + The story had been a jolt, he told himself. Girls were full of queer ideas + of right and wrong, bless them! But she cared. She cared! + </p> + <p> + He arrived in Vienna at nine o'clock that night. The imminence of his + interview with Marie hung over him like a cloud. He ate a hurried supper, + and calling up the Doctors' Club by telephone found Peter's address in the + Siebensternstrasse. He had no idea, of course, that Marie was there. He + wanted to see Peter to learn where Marie had taken refuge, and + incidentally to get from Peter a fresh supply of moral courage for the + interview. For he needed courage. In vain on the journey down had he + clothed himself in armor of wrath against the girl; the very compartment + in the train provoked softened memories of her. Here they had bought a + luncheon, there Marie had first seen the Rax. Again at this station she + had curled up and put her head on his shoulder for a nap. Ah, but again, + at this part of the journey he had first seen Anita! + </p> + <p> + He took a car to the Siebensternstrasse. His idea of Peter's manner of + living those days was exceedingly vague. He had respected Peter's + reticence, after the manner of men with each other. Peter had once + mentioned a boy he was looking after, in excuse for leaving so soon after + the accident. That was all. + </p> + <p> + The house on the Siebensternstrasse loomed large and unlighted. The street + was dark, and it was only after a search that Stewart found the gate. Even + then he lost the path, and found himself among a group of trees, to touch + the lowest branches of any of which resulted in a shower of raindrops. To + add to his discomfort some one was walking in the garden, coming toward + him with light, almost stealthy steps. + </p> + <p> + Stewart by his tree stood still, waiting. The steps approached, were very + close, were beside him. So intense was the darkness that even then all he + saw was a blacker shadow, and that was visible only because it moved. Then + a hand touched his arm, stopped as if paralyzed, drew back slowly, + fearfully. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens!” said poor Harmony faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Please don't be alarmed. I have lost the path.” Stewart's voice was + almost equally nervous. “Is it to the right or the left?” + </p> + <p> + It was a moment before Harmony had breath to speak. Then:— + </p> + <p> + “To the right a dozen paces or so.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. Perhaps I can help you to find it.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it quite well. Please don't bother.” + </p> + <p> + The whole situation was so unexpected that only then did it dawn on + Stewart that this blacker shadow was a countrywoman speaking God's own + language. Together, Harmony a foot or so in advance, they made the path. + </p> + <p> + “The house is there. Ring hard, the bell is out of order.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you not coming in?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I—I do not live here.” + </p> + <p> + She must have gone just after that. Stewart, glancing at the dark facade + of the house, turned round to find her gone, and a moment later heard the + closing of the gate. He was bewildered. What sort of curious place was + this, a great looming house that concealed in its garden a fugitive + American girl who came and went like a shadow, leaving only the memory of + a sweet voice strained with fright? + </p> + <p> + Stewart was full of his encounter as he took the candle the Portier gave + him and followed the gentleman's gruff directions up the staircase. Peter + admitted him, looking a trifle uneasy, as well he might with Marie in the + salon. + </p> + <p> + Stewart was too preoccupied to notice Peter's expression. He shook the + rain off his hat, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” asked Peter dutifully. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty good, except for a headache when I'm tired. What sort of a place + have you got here anyhow, Byrne?” + </p> + <p> + “Old hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa,” replied Peter, still preoccupied + with Marie and what was coming. “Rather interesting old place.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather,” commented Stewart, “with goddesses in the garden and all the + usual stunts.” + </p> + <p> + “Goddesses?” + </p> + <p> + “Ran into one just now among the trees. 'A woman I forswore, but thou + being a goddess I forswore not thee.' English-speaking goddess, by + George!” + </p> + <p> + Peter was staring at him incredulously; now he bent forward and grasped + his arm in fingers of steel. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake, Stewart, tell me what you mean! Who was in the + garden?” + </p> + <p> + Stewart was amused and interested. It was not for him to belittle a + situation of his own making, an incident of his own telling. + </p> + <p> + “I lost my way in your garden, wandered among the trees, broke through a + hedgerow or two, struck a match and consulted the compass—” + </p> + <p> + Peter's fingers closed. + </p> + <p> + “Quick,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Stewart's manner lost its jauntiness. + </p> + <p> + “There was a girl there,” he said shortly. “Couldn't see her. She spoke + English. Said she didn't live here, and broke for the gate the minute I + got to the path.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't see her?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Nice voice, though. Young.” + </p> + <p> + The next moment he was alone. Peter in his dressing-gown was running down + the staircase to the lower floor, was shouting to the Portier to unlock + the door, was a madman in everything but purpose. The Portier let him out + and returned to the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “The boy above is worse,” he said briefly. “A strange doctor has just + come, and but now the Herr Doktor Byrne runs to the drug store.” + </p> + <p> + The Portier's wife shrugged her shoulders even while tears filled her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What can one expect?” she demanded. “The good Herr Gott has forbidden + theft and Rosa says the boy was stolen. Also the druggist has gone to + visit his wife's mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I may be of service; I shall go up.” + </p> + <p> + “And see for a moment that hussy of the streets! Remain here. I shall go.” + </p> + <p> + Slowly and ponderously she climbed the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Stewart, left alone, wandered along the dim corridor. He found Peter's + excitement rather amusing. So this was where Peter lived, an old house, + isolated in a garden where rambled young women with soft voices. Hello, a + youngster asleep! The boy, no doubt. + </p> + <p> + He wandered on toward the lighted door of the salon and Marie. The place + was warm and comfortable, but over it all hung the indescribable odor of + drugs that meant illness. He remembered that the boy was frail. + </p> + <p> + Marie turned as he stopped in the salon doorway, and then rose, + white-faced. Across the wide spaces of the room they eyed each other. + Marie's crisis had come. Like all crises it was bigger than speech. It was + after a distinct pause that she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Hast thou brought the police?” + </p> + <p> + Curiously human, curiously masculine at least was Stewart's mental + condition at that moment. He had never loved the girl; it was with + tremendous relief he had put her out of his life. And yet— + </p> + <p> + “So it's old Peter now, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, not that, Walter. He has given me shelter, that is all. I swear + it. I look after the boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Who else is here?” + </p> + <p> + “No one else; but—” + </p> + <p> + “Tell that rot to some one who does not know you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true. He never even looks at me. I am wicked, but I do not lie.” + There was a catch of hope in her voice. Marie knew men somewhat, but she + still cherished the feminine belief that jealousy is love, whereas it is + only injured pride. She took a step toward him. “Walter, I am sorry. Do + you hate me?” She had dropped the familiar “thou.” + </p> + <p> + Stewart crossed the room until only Peter's table and lamp stood between + them. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't mean to be brutal,” he said, rather largely, entirely conscious + of his own magnanimity. “It was pretty bad up there and I know it. I don't + hate you, of course. That's hardly possible after—everything.” + </p> + <p> + “You—would take me back?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It's over, Marie. I wanted to know where you were, that's all; to see + that you were comfortable and not frightened. You're a silly child to + think of the police.” + </p> + <p> + Marie put a hand to her throat. + </p> + <p> + “It is the American, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She staggered a trifle, recovered, threw up her head. “Then I wish I had + killed her!” + </p> + <p> + No man ever violently resents the passionate hate of one woman for her + rival in his affections. Stewart, finding the situation in hand and Marie + only feebly formidable, was rather amused and flattered by the honest fury + in her voice. The mouse was under his paw; he would play a bit. “You'll + get over feeling that way, kid. You don't really love me.” + </p> + <p> + “You were my God, that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you let me help you—money, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Keep it for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Peter will be here in a minute.” He bent over the table and eyed her with + his old, half-bullying, half-playful manner. “Come round here and kiss me + for old times.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Come.” + </p> + <p> + She stood stubbornly still, and Stewart, still smiling, took a step or two + toward her. Then he stopped, ceased smiling, drew himself up. + </p> + <p> + “You are quite right and I'm a rotter.” Marie's English did not comprehend + “rotter,” but she knew the tone. “Listen, Marie, I've told the other girl, + and there's a chance for me, anyhow. Some day she may marry me. She asked + me to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not wish her pity.” + </p> + <p> + “You are wasting your life here. You cannot marry, you say, without a dot. + There is a chance in America for a clever girl. You are clever, little + Marie. The first money I can spare I'll send you—if you'll take it. + It's all I can do.” + </p> + <p> + This was a new Stewart, a man she had never known. Marie recoiled from + him, eyed him nervously, sought in her childish mind for an explanation. + When at last she understood that he was sincere, she broke down. Stewart, + playing a new part and raw in it, found the situation irritating. But + Marie's tears were not entirely bitter. Back of them her busy young mind + was weaving a new warp of life, with all of America for its loom. Hope + that had died lived again. Before her already lay that great country where + women might labor and live by the fruit of their labor, where her tawdry + past would be buried in the center of distant Europe. New life beckoned to + the little Marie that night in the old salon of Maria Theresa, beckoned to + her as it called to Stewart, opportunity to one, love and work to the + other. To America! + </p> + <p> + “I will go,” she said at last simply. “And I will not trouble you there.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” Stewart held out his hand and Marie took it. With a quick gesture + she held it to her cheek, dropped it. + </p> + <p> + Peter came back half an hour later, downcast but not hopeless. He had not + found Harmony, but life was not all gray. She was well, still in Vienna, + and—she had come back! She had cared then enough to come back. + To-morrow he would commence again, would comb the city fine, and when he + had found her he would bring her back, the wanderer, to a marvelous + welcome. + </p> + <p> + He found Stewart gone, and Marie feverishly overhauling her few belongings + by the salon lamp. She turned to him a face still stained with tears but + radiant with hope. + </p> + <p> + “Peter,” she said gravely, “I must prepare my outfit. I go to America.” + </p> + <p> + “With Stewart?” + </p> + <p> + “Alone, Peter, to work, to be very good, to be something. I am very happy, + although—Peter, may I kiss you?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said Peter, and took her caress gravely, patting her thin + shoulder. His thoughts were in the garden with Harmony, who had cared + enough to come back. + </p> + <p> + “Life,” said Peter soberly, “life is just one damned thing after another, + isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + But Marie was anxiously examining the hem of a skirt. + </p> + <p> + The letter from Anita reached Stewart the following morning. She said:— + </p> + <p> + “I have been thinking things over, Walter, and I am going to hurt you very + much—but not, believe me, without hurting myself. Perhaps my + uppermost thought just now is that I am disappointing you, that I am not + so big as you thought I would be. For now, in this final letter, I can + tell you how much I cared. Oh, my dear, I did care! + </p> + <p> + “But I will not marry you. And when this reaches you I shall have gone + very quietly out of your life. I find that such philosophy as I have does + not support me to-night, that all my little rules of life are inadequate. + Individual liberty was one—but there is no liberty of the + individual. Life—other lives—press too closely. You, living + your life as seemed best and easiest, and carrying down with you into + shipwreck the little Marie and—myself! + </p> + <p> + “For, face to face with the fact, I cannot accept it, Walter. It is not + only a question of my past against yours. It is of steady revolt and + loathing of the whole thing; not the flash of protest before one succumbs + to the inevitable, but a deep-seated hatred that is a part of me and that + would never forget. + </p> + <p> + “You say that you are the same man I would have married, only more honest + for concealing nothing. But—and forgive me this, it insists on + coming up in my mind—were you honest, really? You told me, and it + took courage, but wasn't it partly fear? What motive is unmixed? Honesty—and + fear, Walter. You were preparing against a contingency, although you may + not admit this to yourself. + </p> + <p> + “I am not passing judgment on you. God forbid that I should! I am only + trying to show you what is in my mind, and that this break is final. The + revolt is in myself, against something sordid and horrible which I will + not take into my life. And for that reason time will make no difference. + </p> + <p> + “I am not a child, and I am not unreasonable. But I ask a great deal of + this life of mine that stretches ahead, Walter—home and children, + the love of a good man, the fulfillment of my ideals. And you ask me to + start with a handicap. I cannot do it. I know you are resentful, but—I + know that you understand. + </p> + <p> + “ANITA.” <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> + <p> + The little Georgiev was in trouble those days. The Balkan engine was + threatening to explode, but continued to gather steam, with Bulgaria + sitting on the safety-valve. Austria was mobilizing troops, and there were + long conferences in the Burg between the Emperor and various bearded + gentlemen, while the military prayed in the churches for war. + </p> + <p> + The little Georgiev hardly ate or slept. Much hammering went on all day in + the small room below Harmony's on the Wollbadgasse. At night, when the man + in the green velours hat took a little sleep, mysterious packages were + carried down the whitewashed staircase and loaded into wagons waiting + below. Once on her window-sill Harmony found among the pigeons a carrier + pigeon with a brass tube fastened to its leg. + </p> + <p> + On the morning after Harmony's flight from the garden in the Street of + Seven Stars, she received a visit from Georgiev. She had put in a + sleepless night, full of heart-searching. She charged herself with + cowardice in running away from Peter and Jimmy when they needed her, and + in going back like a thief the night before. The conviction that the boy + was not so well brought with it additional introspection—her + sacrifice seemed useless, almost childish. She had fled because two men + thought it necessary, in order to save her reputation, to marry her; and + she did not wish to marry. Marriage was fatal to the career she had + promised herself, had been promised. But this career, for which she had + given up everything else—would she find it in the workroom of a + dressmaker? + </p> + <p> + Ah, but there was more to it than that. Suppose—how her cheeks + burned when she thought of it!—suppose she had taken Peter at his + word and married him? What about Peter's career? Was there any way by + which Peter's poverty for one would be comfort for two? Was there any + reason why Peter, with his splendid ability, should settle down to the + hack-work of general practice, the very slough out of which he had so + painfully climbed? + </p> + <p> + Either of two things—go back to Peter, but not to marry him, or stay + where she was. How she longed to go back only Harmony knew. There in the + little room, with only the pigeons to see, she held out her arms + longingly. “Peter!” she said. “Peter, dear!” + </p> + <p> + She decided, of course, to stay where she was, a burden to no one. The + instinct of the young girl to preserve her good name at any cost + outweighed the vision of Peter at the window, haggard and tired, looking + out. It was Harmony's chance, perhaps, to do a big thing; to prove herself + bigger than her fears, stronger than convention. But she was young, + bewildered, afraid. And there was this element, stronger than any of the + others—Peter had never told her he loved her. To go back, throwing + herself again on his mercy, was unthinkable. On his love—that was + different. But what if he did not love her? He had been good to her; but + then Peter was good to every one. + </p> + <p> + There was something else. If the boy was worse what about his mother? + Whatever she was or had been, she was his mother. Suppose he were to die + and his mother not see him? Harmony's sense of fairness rebelled. In the + small community at home mother was sacred, her claims insistent. + </p> + <p> + It was very early, hardly more than dawn. The pigeons cooed on the sill; + over the ridge of the church roof, across, a luminous strip foretold the + sun. An oxcart, laden with vegetables for the market, lumbered along the + streets. Puzzled and unhappy, Harmony rose and lighted her fire, drew on + her slippers and the faded silk kimono with the pink butterflies. + </p> + <p> + In the next room the dressmaker still slept, dreaming early morning dreams + of lazy apprentices, overdue bills, complaining customers. + </p> + <p> + Harmony moved lightly not to disturb her. She set her room in order, fed + the pigeons,—it was then she saw the carrier with its message,—made + her morning coffee by setting the tiny pot inside the stove. And all the + time, moving quietly through her morning routine, she was there in that + upper room in body only. + </p> + <p> + In soul she was again in the courtyard back of the old lodge, in the + Street of Seven Stars, with the rabbits stirring in the hutch, and Peter, + with rapt eyes, gazing out over the city. Bed, toilet-table, coffee-pot, + Peter; pigeons, rolls, Peter; sunrise over the church roof, and Peter + again. Always Peter! + </p> + <p> + Monia Reiff was stirring in the next room. Harmony could hear her, + muttering and putting coal on the stove and calling to the Hungarian maid + for breakfast. Harmony dressed hastily. It was one of her new duties to + prepare the workroom for the day. The luminous streak above the church was + rose now, time for the day to begin. + </p> + <p> + She was not certain at once that some one had knocked at the door, so + faint was the sound. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, listened. The knob turned slightly. Harmony, expecting + Monia, called “Come in.” + </p> + <p> + It was the little Georgiev, very apologetic, rather gray of face. He stood + in the doorway with his finger on his lips, one ear toward the stairway. + It was very silent. Monia was drinking her coffee in bed, whither she had + retired for warmth. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon!” said the Bulgarian in a whisper. “I listened until I heard you + moving about. Ah, Fraulein, that I must disturb you!” + </p> + <p> + “Something has happened!” exclaimed Harmony, thinking of Peter, of course. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. I fear it is about to happen. Fraulein, do me the honor to open + your window. My pigeon comes now to you to be fed, and I fear—on the + sill, Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony opened the window. The wild pigeons scattered at once, but the + carrier, flying out a foot or two, came back promptly and set about its + breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “Will he let me catch him?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, Fraulein, If I may enter—” + </p> + <p> + “Come in, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Evidently the defection of the carrier had been serious. A handful of + grain on a wrong window-sill, and kingdoms overthrown! Georgiev caught the + pigeon and drew the message from the tube. Even Harmony grasped the + seriousness of the situation. The little Bulgarian's face, from gray + became livid; tiny beads of cold sweat came out on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “What have I done?” cried Harmony. “Oh, what have I done? If I had known + about the pigeon—” + </p> + <p> + Georgiev recovered himself. + </p> + <p> + “The Fraulein can do nothing wrong,” he said. “It is a matter of an hour's + delay, that is all. It may not be too late.” + </p> + <p> + Monia Reiff, from the next room, called loudly for more coffee. The sulky + Hungarian brought it without a glance in their direction. + </p> + <p> + “Too late for what?” + </p> + <p> + “Fraulein, if I may trouble you—but glance from the window to the + street below. It is of an urgency, or I—Please, Fraulein!” + </p> + <p> + Harmony glanced down into the half-light of the street. Georgiev, behind + her, watched her, breathless, expectant. Harmony drew in her head. + </p> + <p> + “Only a man in a green hat,” she said. “And down the street a group of + soldiers.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + The situation dawned on the girl then, at least partially. + </p> + <p> + “They are coming for you?” + </p> + <p> + “It is possible. But there are many soldiers in Vienna.” + </p> + <p> + “And I with the pigeon—Oh, it's too horrible! Herr Georgiev, stay + here in this room. Lock the door. Monia will say that it is mine—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah no, Fraulein! It is quite hopeless. Nor is it a matter of the pigeon. + It is war, Fraulein. Do not distress yourself. It is but a matter of—imprisonment.” + </p> + <p> + “There must be something I can do,” desperately. “I hear them below. Is + there no way to the roof, no escape?” + </p> + <p> + “None, Fraulein. It was an oversight. War is not my game; I am a man of + peace. You have been very kind to me, Fraulein. I thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not going down!” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, but it is better so. Soldiers they are of the provinces mostly, + and not for a lady to confront.” + </p> + <p> + “They are coming up!” + </p> + <p> + He listened. The clank of scabbards against the stone stairs was + unmistakable. The little Georgiev straightened, threw out his chest, + turned to descend, faltered, came back a step or two. + </p> + <p> + His small black eyes were fixed on Harmony's face. + </p> + <p> + “Fraulein,” he said huskily, “you are very lovely. I carry always in my + heart your image. Always so long as I live. Adieu.” + </p> + <p> + He drew his heels together, gave a stiff little bow and was gone down the + staircase. Harmony was frightened, stricken. She collapsed in a heap on + the floor of her room, her fingers in her ears. But she need not have + feared. The little Georgiev made no protest, submitted to the inevitable + like a gentleman and a soldier, went out of her life, indeed, as + unobtrusively as he had entered it. + </p> + <p> + The carrier pigeon preened itself comfortably on the edge of the + washstand. Harmony ceased her hysterical crying at last and pondered what + was best to do. Monia was still breakfasting so incredibly brief are great + moments. After a little thought Harmony wrote a tiny message, English, + German, and French, and inclosed it in the brass tube. + </p> + <p> + “The Herr Georgiev has been arrested,” she wrote. An hour later the + carrier rose lazily from the window-sill, flapped its way over the church + roof and disappeared, like Georgiev, out of her life. Grim-visaged war had + touched her and passed on. + </p> + <p> + The incident was not entirely closed, however. A search of the building + followed the capture of the little spy. Protesting tenants were turned + out, beds were dismantled, closets searched, walls sounded for hidden + hollows. In one room on Harmony's floor was found stored a quantity of + ammunition. + </p> + <p> + It was when the three men who had conducted the search had finished, when + the boxes of ammunition had been gathered in the hall, and the chattering + sewing-girls had gone back to work, that Harmony, on her way to her + dismantled room, passed through the upper passage. + </p> + <p> + She glanced down the staircase where little Georgiev had so manfully + descended. + </p> + <p> + “I carry always in my heart your image. Always so long as I live.” + </p> + <p> + The clatter of soldiers on their way down to the street came to her ears; + the soft cooing of the pigeons, the whirr of sewing-machines from the + workroom. The incident was closed, except for the heap of ammunition boxes + on the landing, guarded by an impassive soldier. + </p> + <p> + Harmony glanced at him. He was eying her steadily, thumbs in, heels in, + toes out, chest out. Harmony put her hand to her heart. + </p> + <p> + “You!” she said. + </p> + <p> + The conversation of a sentry, save on a holiday is, “Yea, yea,” and “Nay, + nay.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony put her hands together, a little gesture of appeal, infinitely + touching. + </p> + <p> + “You will not say that you have found, have seen me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + It was in Harmony's mind to ask all her hungry heart craved to learn—of + Peter, of Jimmy, of the Portier, of anything that belonged to the old life + in the Siebensternstrasse. But there was no time. The sentry's impassive + face became rigid; he looked through her, not at her. Harmony turned. + </p> + <p> + The man in the green hat was coming up the staircase. There was no further + chance to question. The sentry was set to carrying the boxes down the + staircase. + </p> + <p> + Full morning now, with the winter sun shining on the beggars in the + market, on the crowds in the parks, on the flower sellers in the + Stephansplatz; shining on Harmony's golden head as she bent over a bit of + chiffon, on the old milkwoman carrying up the whitewashed staircase her + heavy cans of milk; on the carrier pigeon winging its way to the south; + beating in through bars to the exalted face of Herr Georgiev; resting on + Peter's drooping shoulders, on the neglected mice and the wooden soldier, + on the closed eyes of a sick child—the worshiped sun, peering forth—the + golden window of the East. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI + </h2> + <p> + Jimmy was dying. Peter, fighting hard, was beaten at last. All through the + night he had felt it; during the hours before the dawn there had been + times when the small pulse wavered, flickered, almost ceased. With the + daylight there had been a trifle of recovery, enough for a bit of hope, + enough to make harder Peter's acceptance of the inevitable. + </p> + <p> + The boy was very happy, quite content and comfortable. When he opened his + eyes he smiled at Peter, and Peter, gray of face, smiled back. Peter died + many deaths that night. + </p> + <p> + At daylight Jimmy fell into a sleep that was really stupor. Marie, + creeping to the door in the faint dawn, found the boy apparently asleep + and Peter on his knees beside the bed. He raised his head at her footstep + and the girl was startled at the suffering in his face. He motioned her + back. + </p> + <p> + “But you must have a little sleep, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I'll stay until—Go back to bed. It is very early.” + </p> + <p> + Peter had not been able after all to secure the Nurse Elisabet, and now it + was useless. At eight o'clock he let Marie take his place, then he bathed + and dressed and prepared to face another day, perhaps another night. For + the child's release came slowly. He tried to eat breakfast, but managed + only a cup of coffee. + </p> + <p> + Many things had come to Peter in the long night, and one was insistent—the + boy's mother was in Vienna and he was dying without her. Peter might know + in his heart that he had done the best thing for the child, but like + Harmony his early training was rising now to accuse him. He had separated + mother and child. Who was he to have decided the mother's unfitness, to + have played destiny? How lightly he had taken the lives of others in his + hand, and to what end? Harmony, God knows where; the boy dying without his + mother. Whatever that mother might be, her place that day was with her + boy. What a wreck he had made of things! He was humbled as well as + stricken, poor Peter! + </p> + <p> + In the morning he sent a note to McLean, asking him to try to trace the + mother and inclosing the music-hall clipping and the letter. The letter, + signed only “Mamma,” was not helpful. The clipping might prove valuable. + </p> + <p> + “And for Heaven's sake be quick,” wrote Peter. “This is a matter of hours. + I meant well, but I've done a terrible thing. Bring her, Mac, no matter + what she is or where you find her.” The Portier carried the note. When he + came up to get it he brought in his pocket a small rabbit and a lettuce + leaf. Never before had the combination failed to arouse and amuse the boy. + He carried the rabbit down again sorrowfully. “He saw it not,” he reported + sadly to his wife. “Be off to the church while I deliver this letter. And + this rabbit we will not cook, but keep in remembrance.” + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock Marie called Peter, who was asleep on the horsehair + sofa. + </p> + <p> + “He asks for you.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was instantly awake and on his feet. The boy's eyes were open and + fixed on him. + </p> + <p> + “Is it another day?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, boy; another morning.” + </p> + <p> + “I am cold, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + They blanketed him, although the room was warm. From where he lay he could + see the mice. He watched them for a moment. Poor Peter, very humble, found + himself wondering in how many ways he had been remiss. To see this small + soul launched into eternity without a foreword, without a bit of light for + the journey! Peter's religion had been one of life and living, not of + creed. + </p> + <p> + Marie, bringing jugs of hot water, bent over Peter. + </p> + <p> + “He knows, poor little one!” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + And so, indeed, it would seem. The boy, revived by a spoonful or two of + broth, asked to have the two tame mice on the bed. Peter, opening the + cage, found one dead, very stiff and stark. The catastrophe he kept from + the boy. + </p> + <p> + “One is sick, Jimmy boy,” he said, and placed the mate, forlorn and + shivering, on the pillow. After a minute:— + </p> + <p> + “If the sick one dies will it go to heaven?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, honey, I think so.” + </p> + <p> + The boy was silent for a time. Thinking was easier than speech. His mind + too worked slowly. It was after a pause, while he lay there with closed + eyes, that Peter saw two tears slip from under his long lashes. Peter bent + over and wiped them away, a great ache in his heart. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid—it's going to die!” + </p> + <p> + “Would that be so terrible, Jimmy boy?” asked Peter gently. “To go to + heaven, where there is no more death or dying, where it is always summer + and the sun always shines?” + </p> + <p> + No reply for a moment. The little mouse sat up on the pillow and rubbed + its nose with a pinkish paw. The baby mice in the cage nuzzled their dead + mother. + </p> + <p> + “Is there grass?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—soft green grass.” + </p> + <p> + “Do—boys in heaven—go in their bare feet?” Ah, small mind and + heart, so terrified and yet so curious! + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, yes.” And there on his knees beside the white bed Peter painted + such a heaven as no theologue has ever had the humanity to paint—a + heaven of babbling brooks and laughing, playing children, a heaven of dear + departed puppies and resurrected birds, of friendly deer, of trees in + fruit, of speckled fish in bright rivers. Painted his heaven with smiling + eyes and death in his heart, a child's heaven of games and friendly + Indians, of sunlight and rain, sweet sleep and brisk awakening. + </p> + <p> + The boy listened. He was silent when Peter had finished. Speech was + increasingly an effort. + </p> + <p> + “I should—like—to go there,” he whispered at last. + </p> + <p> + He did not speak again during all the long afternoon, but just at dusk he + roused again. + </p> + <p> + “I would like—to see—the sentry,” he said with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + And so again, and for the last time, Rosa's soldier from Salzburg with one + lung. + </p> + <p> + Through all that long day, then, Harmony sat over her work, unaccustomed + muscles aching, the whirring machines in her ears. Monia, upset over the + morning's excitement, was irritable and unreasonable. The gold-tissue + costume had come back from Le Grande with a complaint. Below in the + courtyard all day curious groups stood gaping up the staircase, where the + morning had seen such occurrences. + </p> + <p> + At the noon hour, while the girls heated soup and carried in pails of + salad from the corner restaurant, Harmony had fallen into the way of + playing for them. To the music-loving Viennese girls this was the hour of + the day. To sit back, soup bowl on knee, the machines silent, Monia + quarreling in the kitchen with the Hungarian servant, and while the + pigeons ate crusts on the window-sills, to hear this American girl play + such music as was played at the opera, her slim figure swaying, her whole + beautiful face and body glowing with the melody she made, the girls found + the situation piquant, altogether delightful. Although she did not suspect + it, many rumors were rife about Harmony in the workroom. She was not of + the people, they said—the daughter of a great American, of course, + run away to escape a loveless marriage. This was borne out by the report + of one of them who had glimpsed the silk petticoat. It was rumored also + that she wore no chemise, but instead an infinitely coquettish series of + lace and nainsook garments—of a fineness! + </p> + <p> + Harmony played for them that day, played, perhaps, as she had not played + since the day she had moved the master to tears, played to Peter as she + had seen him at the window, to Jimmy, to the little Georgiev as he went + down the staircase. And finally with a choke in her throat to the little + mother back home, so hopeful, so ignorant. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, as was her custom, she took the one real meal of the day + at the corner restaurant, going early to avoid the crowd and coming back + quickly through the winter night. The staircase was always a peril, to be + encountered and conquered night after night and even in the daytime not to + be lightly regarded. On her way up this night she heard steps ahead, + heavy, measured steps that climbed steadily without pauses. For an instant + Harmony thought it sounded like Peter's step and she went dizzy. + </p> + <p> + But it was not Peter. Standing in the upper hall, much as he had stood + that morning over the ammunition boxes, thumbs in, heels in, toes out, + chest out, was the sentry. + </p> + <p> + Harmony's first thought was of Georgiev and more searching of the + building. Then she saw that the sentry's impassive face wore lines of + trouble. He saluted. “Please, Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not told the Herr Doktor.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “But the child dies.” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy?” + </p> + <p> + “He dies all of last night and to-day. To-night, it is, perhaps, but of + moments.” + </p> + <p> + Harmony clutched at the iron stair-rail for support. “You are sure? You + are not telling me so that I will go back?” + </p> + <p> + “He dies, Fraulein. The Herr Doktor has not slept for many hours. My wife, + Rosa, sits on the stair to see that none disturb, and her cousin, the wife + of the Portier, weeps over the stove. Please, Fraulein, come with me.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you leave the Siebensternstrasse?” + </p> + <p> + “But now.” + </p> + <p> + “And he still lives?” + </p> + <p> + “Ja, Fraulein, and asks for you.” + </p> + <p> + Now suddenly fell away from the girl all pride, all fear, all that was + personal and small and frightened, before the reality of death. She rose, + as women by divine gift do rise, to the crisis; ceased trembling, got her + hat and coat and her shabby gloves and joined the sentry again. Another + moment's delay—to secure the Le Grande's address from Monia. Then + out into the night, Harmony to the Siebensternstrasse, the tall soldier to + find the dancer at her hotel, or failing that, at the Ronacher Music-Hall. + </p> + <p> + Harmony took a taxicab—nothing must be spared now—bribed the + chauffeur to greater speed, arrived at the house and ran across the + garden, still tearless, up the stairs, past Rosa on the upper flight, and + rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + Marie admitted her with only a little gasp of surprise. There was nothing + to warn Peter. One moment he sat by the bed, watch in hand, alone, drear, + tragic-eyed. The next he had glanced up, saw Harmony and went white, + holding to the back of his chair. Their eyes met, agony and hope in them, + love and death, rapture and bitterness. In Harmony's, pleading, promise, + something of doubt; in Peter's, only yearning, as of empty arms. Then + Harmony dared to look at the bed and fell on her knees in a storm of grief + beside it. Peter bent over and gently stroked her hair. + </p> + <p> + Le Grande was singing; the boxes were full. In the body of the immense + theater waiters scurried back and forward among the tables. Everywhere was + the clatter of silver and steel on porcelain, the clink of glasses. Smoke + was everywhere—pipes, cigars, cigarettes. Women smoked between bites + at the tables, using small paper or silver mouthpieces, even a gold one + shone here and there. Men walked up and down among the diners, spraying + the air with chemicals to clear it. At a table just below the stage sat + the red-bearded Dozent with the lady of the photograph. They were drinking + cheap native wines and were very happy. + </p> + <p> + From the height of his worldly wisdom he was explaining the people to her. + </p> + <p> + “In the box—don't stare, Liebchen, he looks—is the princeling + I have told you of. Roses, of course. Last night it was orchids.” + </p> + <p> + “Last night! Were you here?” He coughed. + </p> + <p> + “I have been told, Liebchen. Each night he sits there, and when she + finishes her song he rises in the box, kisses the flowers and tosses them + to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Shameless! Is she so beautiful?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But you shall see. She comes.” + </p> + <p> + Le Grande was very popular. She occupied the best place on the program; + and because she sang in American, which is not exactly English and more + difficult to understand, her songs were considered exceedingly risque. As + a matter of fact they were merely ragtime melodies, with a lilt to them + that caught the Viennese fancy, accustomed to German sentimental ditties + and the artificial forms of grand opera. And there was another reason for + her success. She carried with her a chorus of a dozen pickaninnies. + </p> + <p> + In Austria darkies were as rare as cats, and there were no cats! So the + little chorus had made good. + </p> + <p> + Each day she walked in the Prater, ermine from head to foot, and behind + her two by two trailed twelve little Southern darkies in red-velvet coats + and caps, grinning sociably. When she drove a pair sat on the boot. + </p> + <p> + Her voice was strong, not sweet, spoiled by years of singing against + dishes and bottles in smoky music halls; spoiled by cigarettes and + absinthe and foreign cocktails that resembled their American prototypes as + the night resembles the day. + </p> + <p> + She wore the gold dress, decolletee, slashed to the knee over + rhinestone-spangled stockings. And back of her trailed the twelve little + darkies. + </p> + <p> + She sang “Dixie,” of course, and the “Old Folks at Home”; then a ragtime + medley, with the chorus showing rows of white teeth and clogging with all + their short legs. Le Grande danced to that, a whirling, nimble dance. The + little rhinestones on her stockings flashed; her opulent bosom quivered. + The Dozent, eyes on the dancer, squeezed his companion's hand. + </p> + <p> + “I love thee!” he whispered, rather flushed. + </p> + <p> + And then she sang “Doan ye cry, mah honey.” Her voice, rather coarse but + melodious, lent itself to the negro rhythm, the swing and lilt of the + lullaby. The little darkies, eyes rolling, preternaturally solemn, linked + arms and swayed rhythmically, right, left, right, left. The glasses ceased + clinking; sturdy citizens forgot their steak and beer for a moment and + listened, knife and fork poised. Under the table the Dozent's hand pressed + its captive affectionately, his eyes no longer on Le Grande, but on the + woman across, his sweetheart, she who would be mother of his children. The + words meant little to the audience; the rich, rolling Southern lullaby + held them rapt:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Doan ye Cry, mah honey— + Doan ye weep no mo', + Mammy's gwine to hold her baby, + All de udder black trash sleepin' on the flo',” + </pre> + <p> + The little darkies swayed; the singer swayed, empty arms cradled. + </p> + <p> + She picked the tiniest darky up and held him, woolly head against her + breast, and crooned to him, rocking on her jeweled heels. The crowd + applauded; the man in the box kissed his flowers and flung them. Glasses + and dishes clinked again. + </p> + <p> + The Dozent bent across the table. + </p> + <p> + “Some day—” he said. + </p> + <p> + The girl blushed. + </p> + <p> + Le Grande made her way into the wings, surrounded by her little troupe. A + motherly colored woman took them, shooed them off, rounded them up like a + flock of chickens. + </p> + <p> + And there in the wings, grimly impassive, stood a private soldier of the + old Franz Josef, blocking the door to her dressing room. For a moment gold + dress and dark blue-gray uniform confronted each other. Then the sentry + touched his cap. + </p> + <p> + “Madam,” he said, “the child is in the Riebensternstrasse and to-night he + dies.” + </p> + <p> + “What child?” Her arms were full of flowers. + </p> + <p> + “The child from the hospital. Please to make haste.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy died an hour after midnight, quite peacefully, died with one hand in + Harmony's and one between Peter's two big ones. + </p> + <p> + Toward the last he called Peter “Daddy” and asked for a drink. His eyes, + moving slowly round the room, passed without notice the grayfaced woman in + a gold dress who stood staring down at him, rested a moment on the cage of + mice, came to a stop in the doorway, where stood the sentry, white and + weary, but refusing rest. + </p> + <p> + It was Harmony who divined the child's unspoken wish. + </p> + <p> + “The manual?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + The boy nodded. And so just inside the door of the bedroom across from the + old salon of Maria Theresa the sentry, with sad eyes but no lack of vigor, + went again through the Austrian manual of arms, and because he had no + carbine he used Peter's old walking-stick. + </p> + <p> + When it was finished the boy smiled faintly, tried to salute, lay still. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII + </h2> + <p> + Peter was going back to America and still he had not told Harmony he loved + her. It was necessary that he go back. His money had about given out, and + there was no way to get more save by earning it. The drain of Jimmy's + illness, the inevitable expense of the small grave and the tiny stone + Peter had insisted on buying, had made retreat his only course. True, Le + Grande had wished to defray all expenses, but Peter was inexorable. No + money earned as the dancer earned hers should purchase peaceful rest for + the loved little body. And after seeing Peter's eyes the dancer had not + insisted. + </p> + <p> + A week had seen many changes. Marie was gone. After a conference between + Stewart and Peter that had been decided on. Stewart raised the money + somehow, and Peter saw her off, palpitant and eager, with the pin he had + sent her to Semmering at her throat. She kissed Peter on the cheek in the + station, rather to his embarrassment. From the lowered window, as the + train pulled out, she waved a moist handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be very good,” she promised him. The last words he heard above + the grinding of the train were her cheery: “To America!” + </p> + <p> + Peter was living alone in the Street of Seven Stars, getting food where he + might happen to be, buying a little now and then from the delicatessen + shop across the street. For Harmony had gone back to the house in the + Wollbadgasse. She had stayed until all was over and until Marie's small + preparations for departure were over. Then, while Peter was at the + station, she slipped away again. But this time she left her address. She + wrote:— + </p> + <p> + “You will come to visit me, dear Peter, because I was so lonely before and + that is unnecessary now. But you must know that I cannot stay in the + Siebensternstrasse. We have each our own fight to make, and you have been + trying to fight for us all, for Marie, for dear little Jimmy, for me. You + must get back to work now; you have lost so much time. And I am managing + well. The Frau Professor is back and will take an evening lesson, and soon + I shall have more money from Fraulein Reiff. You can see how things are + looking up for me. In a few months I shall be able to renew my music + lessons. And then, Peter,—the career! + </p> + <p> + “HARMONY.” + </p> + <p> + Her address was beneath. + </p> + <p> + Peter had suffered much. He was thinner, grayer, and as he stood with the + letter in his hand he felt that Harmony was right. He could offer her + nothing but his shabby self, his problematic future. Perhaps, surely, + everything would have been settled, without reason, had he only once taken + the girl in his arms, told her she was the breath of life itself to him. + But adversity, while it had roused his fighting spirit in everything else, + had sapped his confidence. + </p> + <p> + He had found the letter on his dressing-table, and he found himself + confronting his image over it, a tall, stooping figure, a tired, lined + face, a coat that bore the impress of many days with a sick child's head + against its breast. + </p> + <p> + So it was over. She had come back and gone again, and this time he must + let her go. Who was he to detain her? She would carry herself on to + success, he felt; she had youth, hope, beauty and ability. And she had + proved the thing he had not dared to believe, that she could take care of + herself in the old city. Only—to go away and leave her there! + </p> + <p> + McLean would remain. No doubt he already had Harmony's address in the + Wollbadgasse. Peter was not subtle, no psychologist, but he had seen + during the last few days how the boy watched Harmony's every word, every + gesture. And, perhaps, when loneliness and hard work began to tell on her, + McLean's devotion would win its reward. McLean's devotion, with all that + it meant, the lessons again, community of taste, their common youth! Peter + felt old, very tired. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless he went that night to the Wollbadgasse. He sent his gray suit + to the Portier's wife to be pressed, and getting out his surgical case, as + he had once before in the Pension Schwarz, he sewed a button on his + overcoat, using the curved needle and the catgut and working with + surgeon's precision. Then, still working very carefully, he trimmed the + edges of graying hair over his ears, trimmed his cuffs, trimmed his best + silk tie, now almost hopeless. He blacked his shoes, and the suit not + coming, he donned his dressing-gown and went into Jimmy's room to feed the + mice. Peter stood a moment beside the smooth white bed with his face + working. The wooden sentry still stood on the bedside table. + </p> + <p> + It was in Peter's mind to take the mice to Harmony, confess his defeat and + approaching retreat, and ask her to care for them. Then he decided against + this palpable appeal for sympathy, elected to go empty-handed and discover + merely how comfortable she was or was not. When the time came he would + slip out of her life, sending her a letter and leaving McLean on guard. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was at home. Peter climbed the dark staircase—where Harmony + had met the little Georgiev, and where he had gone down to his death—climbed + steadily, but without his usual elasticity. The place appalled him—its + gloom, its dinginess, its somber quiet. In the daylight, with the pigeons + on the sills and the morning sunlight printing the cross of the church + steeple on the whitewashed wall, it was peaceful, cloisterlike, with + landings that were crypts. But at night it was almost terrifying, that + staircase. + </p> + <p> + Harmony was playing. Peter heard her when he reached the upper landing, + playing a sad little strain that gripped his heart. He waited outside + before ringing, heard her begin something determinedly cheerful, falter, + cease altogether. Peter rang. + </p> + <p> + Harmony herself admitted him. Perhaps—oh, certainly she had expected + him! It would be Peter, of course, to come and see how she was getting on, + how she was housed. She held out her hand and Peter took it. Still no + words, only a half smile from her and no smile at all from Peter, but his + heart in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I hoped you would come, Peter. We may have the reception room.” + </p> + <p> + “You knew I would come,” said Peter. “The reception room?” + </p> + <p> + “Where customers wait.” She still carried her violin, and slipped back to + her room to put it away. Peter had a glimpse of its poverty and its + meagerness. He drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + Monia was at the opera, and the Hungarian sat in the kitchen knitting a + stocking. The reception room was warm from the day's fire, and in order. + All the pins and scraps of the day had been swept up, and the portieres + that made fitting-rooms of the corners were pushed back. Peter saw only a + big room with empty corners, and that at a glance. His eyes were + Harmony's. + </p> + <p> + He sat down awkwardly on a stiff chair, Harmony on a velvet settee. They + were suddenly two strangers meeting for the first time. In the squalor of + the Pension Schwarz, in the comfortable intimacies of the Street of Seven + Stars, they had been easy, unconstrained. Now suddenly Peter was + tongue-tied. Only one thing in him clamored for utterance, and that he + sternly silenced. + </p> + <p> + “I—I could not stay there, Peter. You understood?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Of course, I understood.” + </p> + <p> + “You were not angry?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I be angry? You came, like an angel of light, when I needed + you. Only, of course,—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not say that, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Please say it, Peter!” + </p> + <p> + Peter writhed; looked everywhere but at her. + </p> + <p> + “Please, Peter. You said I always came when you needed me, only—” + </p> + <p> + “Only—I always need you!” Peter, Peter! + </p> + <p> + “Not always, I think. Of course, when one is in trouble one needs a woman; + but—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course—but—I'm generally in trouble, Harry dear.” + </p> + <p> + Frightfully ashamed of himself by that time was Peter, ashamed of his + weakness. He sought to give a casual air to the speech by stooping for a + neglected pin on the carpet. By the time he had stuck it in his lapel he + had saved his mental forces from the rout of Harmony's eyes. + </p> + <p> + His next speech he made to the center table, and missed a most delectable + look in the aforesaid eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't come to be silly,” he said to the table. “I hate people who + whine, and I've got into a damnable habit of being sorry for myself! It's + to laugh, isn't it, a great, hulking carcass like me, to be—” + </p> + <p> + “Peter,” said Harmony softly, “aren't you going to look at me?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “That's cowardice. And I've fixed my hair a new way. Do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “Splendid,” said Peter to the center table. + </p> + <p> + “You didn't look!” + </p> + <p> + The rout of Harmony's eyes was supplemented by the rout of Harmony's hair. + Peter, goaded, got up and walked about. Harmony was half exasperated; she + would have boxed Peter's ears with a tender hand had she dared. + </p> + <p> + His hands thrust savagely in his pockets, Peter turned and faced her at + last. + </p> + <p> + “First of all,” he said, “I am going back to America, Harmony. I've got + all I can get here, all I came for—” He stopped, seeing her face. + “Well, of course, that's not true, I haven't. But I'm going back, anyhow. + You needn't look so stricken: I haven't lost my chance. I'll come back + sometime again and finish, when I've earned enough to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “You will never come back, Peter. You have spent all your money on others, + and now you are going back just where you were, and—you are leaving + me here alone!” + </p> + <p> + “You are alone, anyhow,” said Peter, “making your own way and getting + along. And McLean will be here.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you turning me over to him?” + </p> + <p> + No reply. Peter was pacing the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Peter!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the night in Anna's room at the Schwartz when you + proposed to me?” + </p> + <p> + No reply. Peter found another pin. + </p> + <p> + “And that night in the old lodge when you proposed to me again?” + </p> + <p> + Peter turned and looked at her, at her slender, swaying young figure, her + luminous eyes, her parted, childish lips. + </p> + <p> + “Peter, I want you to—to ask me again.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, listen to me, Harmony. You're sorry for me, that's all; I don't want + to be pitied. You stay here and work. You'll do big things. I had a talk + with the master while I was searching for you, and he says you can do + anything. But he looked at me—and a sight I was with worry and + fright—and he warned me off, Harmony. He says you must not marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Old pig!” said Harmony. “I will marry if I please.” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless Peter's refusal and the master's speech had told somewhat. + She was colder, less vibrant. Peter came to her, stood close, looking down + at her. + </p> + <p> + “I've said a lot I didn't mean to,” he said. “There's only one thing I + haven't said, I oughtn't to say it, dear. I'm not going to marry you—I + won't have such a thing on my conscience. But it doesn't hurt a woman to + know that a man loves her. I love you, dear. You're my heaven and my earth—even + my God, I'm afraid. But I will not marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even if I ask you to?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even then, dear. To share my struggle—” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” slowly. “It is to be a struggle?” + </p> + <p> + “A hard fight, Harmony. I'm a pauper practically.” + </p> + <p> + “And what am I?” + </p> + <p> + “Two poverties don't make a wealth, even of happiness,” said Peter + steadily. “In the time to come, when you would think of what you might + have been, it would be a thousand deaths to me, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “People have married, women have married and carried on their work, too, + Peter.” + </p> + <p> + “Not your sort of women or your sort of work. And not my sort of man, + Harry. I'm jealous—jealous of every one about you. It would have to + be the music or me.” + </p> + <p> + “And you make the choice!” said Harmony proudly. “Very well, Peter, I + shall do as you say. But I think it is a very curious sort of love.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” Peter cried, “if you realize what love it is that loves you + enough to give you up.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not asked me if I care, Peter.” + </p> + <p> + Peter looked at her. She was very near to tears, very sad, very beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid to ask,” said Peter, and picking up his hat he made for the + door. There he turned, looked back, was lost. + </p> + <p> + “My sweetest heart!” he cried, and took her in his hungry arms. But even + then, with her arms about his neck at last, with her slender body held to + him, her head on his shoulder, his lips to her soft throat, Peter put her + from him as a starving man might put away food. + </p> + <p> + He held her off and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a fool and a weakling,” he said gravely. “I love you so much that I + would sacrifice you. You are very lovely, my girl, my girl! As long as I + live I shall carry your image in my heart.” + </p> + <p> + Ah, what the little Georgiev had said on his way to the death that waited + down the staircase. Peter, not daring to look at her again, put away her + detaining hand, squared his shoulders, went to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Harmony,” he said steadily. “Always in my heart!” + </p> + <p> + Very near the end now: the little Marie on the way to America, with the + recording angel opening a new page in life's ledger for her and a red-ink + line erasing the other; with Jimmy and his daddy wandering through the + heaven of friendly adventure and green fields, hand in hand; with the + carrier resting after its labors in the pigeon house by the rose-fields of + Sofia; with the sentry casting martial shadows through the barred windows + of the hospital; and the little Georgiev, about to die, dividing his + heart, as a heritage, between his country and a young girl. + </p> + <p> + Very near the end, with the morning light of the next day shining into the + salon of Maria Theresa and on to Peter's open trunk and shabby wardrobe + spread over chairs. An end of trunks and departure, as was the beginning. + </p> + <p> + Early morning at the Gottesacker, or God's acre, whence little Jimmy had + started on his comfortable journey. Early morning on the frost-covered + grass, the frozen roads, the snap and sparkle of the Donau. Harmony had + taken her problem there, in the early hour before Monia would summon her + to labor—took her problem and found her answer. + </p> + <p> + The great cemetery was still and deserted. Harmony, none too warmly clad, + walked briskly, a bunch of flowers in oiled paper against the cold. + Already the air carried a hint of spring; there was a feeling of + resurrection and promise. The dead earth felt alive under-foot. + </p> + <p> + Harmony knelt by the grave and said the little prayer the child had + repeated at night and morning. And, because he had loved it, with some + vague feeling of giving him comfort, she recited the little verse:— + </p> + <p> + “Ah well! For us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes: + And in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away.” + </p> + <p> + When she looked up Le Grande was standing beside her. + </p> + <p> + There was no scene, hardly any tears. She had brought out a great bunch of + roses that bore only too clearly the stamp of whence they came. One of the + pickaninnies had carried the box and stood impassively by, gazing at + Harmony. + </p> + <p> + Le Grande placed her flowers on the grave. They almost covered it, quite + eclipsed Harmony's. + </p> + <p> + “I come here every morning,” she said simply. + </p> + <p> + She had a cab waiting, and offered to drive Harmony back to the city. Her + quiet almost irritated Harmony, until she had looked once into the woman's + eyes. After that she knew. It was on the drive back, with the little darky + on the box beside the driver, that Harmony got her answer. + </p> + <p> + Le Grande put a hand over Harmony's. + </p> + <p> + “I tried to tell you before how good I know you were to him.” + </p> + <p> + “We loved him.” + </p> + <p> + “And I resented it. But Dr. Byrne was right—I was not a fit person + to—to have him.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not that—not only that—” + </p> + <p> + “Did he ever ask for me? But of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he had no remembrance.” + </p> + <p> + Silence for a moment. The loose windows of the cab clattered. + </p> + <p> + “I loved him very much when he came,” said Le Grande, “although I did not + want him. I had been told I could have a career on the stage. Ah, my dear, + I chose the career—and look at me! What have I? A grave in the + cemetery back there, and on it roses sent me by a man I loathe! If I could + live it over again!” + </p> + <p> + The answer was very close now:— + </p> + <p> + “Would you stay at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows, I being I? And my husband did not love me. It was the boy + always. There is only one thing worth while—the love of a good man. + I have lived, lived hard. And I know.” + </p> + <p> + “But supposing that one has real ability—I mean some achievement + already, and a promise—” + </p> + <p> + Le Grande turned and looked at Harmony shrewdly. + </p> + <p> + “I see. You are a musician, I believe?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And—it is Dr. Byrne?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Le Grande bent forward earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “My child,” she said, “if one man in all the world looked at me as your + doctor looks at you, I—I would be a better woman.” + </p> + <p> + “And my music?” + </p> + <p> + “Play for your children, as you played for my little boy.” + </p> + <p> + Peter was packing: wrapping medical books in old coats, putting clean + collars next to boots, folding pajamas and such-like negligible garments + with great care and putting in his dresscoat in a roll. His pipes took + time, and the wooden sentry he packed with great care and a bit of healthy + emotion. Once or twice he came across trifles of Harmony's, and he put + them carefully aside—the sweater coat, a folded handkerchief, a bow + she had worn at her throat. The bow brought back the night before and that + reckless kiss on her white throat. Well for Peter to get away if he is to + keep his resolution, when the sight of a ribbon bow can bring that look of + suffering into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + The Portier below was polishing floors, right foot, left foot, any foot at + all. And as he polished he sang in a throaty tenor. + </p> + <p> + “Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen,” he sang at the top of his + voice, and coughed, a bit of floor wax having got into the air. The + antlers of the deer from the wild-game shop hung now in his bedroom. When + the wildgame seller came over for coffee there would be a discussion + probably. But were not the antlers of all deer similar? + </p> + <p> + The Portier's wife came to the doorway with a cooking fork in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “A cab,” she announced, “with a devil's imp on the box. Perhaps it is that + American dancer. Run and pretty thyself!” + </p> + <p> + It was too late for more than an upward twist of a mustache. Harmony was + at the door, but not the sad-eyed Harmony of a week before or the + undecided and troubled girl of before that. A radiant Harmony, this, who + stood in the doorway, who wished them good-morning, and ran up the old + staircase with glowing eyes and a heart that leaped and throbbed. A woman + now, this Harmony, one who had looked on life and learned; one who had + chosen her fate and was running to meet it; one who feared only death, not + life or anything that life could offer. + </p> + <p> + The door was not locked. Perhaps Peter was not up—not dressed. What + did that matter? What did anything matter but Peter himself? + </p> + <p> + Peter, sorting out lectures on McBurney's Point, had come across a bit of + paper that did not belong there, and was sitting by his open trunk, + staring blindly at it:— + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind to me. Yes, indeed. + </p> + <p> + “H. W.” + </p> + <p> + Quite the end now, with Harmony running across the room and dropping down + on her knees among a riot of garments—down on her knees, with one + arm round Peter's neck, drawing his tired head lower until she could kiss + him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Peter, Peter, dear!” she cried. “I'll love you all my life if only + you'll love me, and never, never let me go!” + </p> + <p> + Peter was dazed at first. He put his arms about her rather unsteadily, + because he had given her up and had expected to go through the rest of + life empty of arm and heart. And when one has one's arms set, as one may + say, for loneliness and relinquishment it is rather difficult—Ah, + but Peter got the way of it swiftly. + </p> + <p> + “Always,” he said incoherently; “forever the two of us. Whatever comes, + Harmony?” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever comes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you'll not be sorry?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you love me.” + </p> + <p> + Peter kissed her on the eyes very solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “God helping me, I'll be good to you always. And I'll always love you.” + </p> + <p> + He tried to hold her away from him for a moment after that, to tell her + what she was doing, what she was giving up. She would not be reasoned + with. + </p> + <p> + “I love you,” was her answer to every line. And it was no divided + allegiance she promised him. “Career? I shall have a career. Yours!” + </p> + <p> + “And your music?” + </p> + <p> + She colored, held him closer. + </p> + <p> + “Some day,” she whispered, “I shall tell you about that.” + </p> + <p> + Late winter morning in Vienna, with the school-children hurrying home, the + Alserstrasse alive with humanity—soldiers and chimney-sweeps, + housewives and beggars. Before the hospital the crowd lines up along the + curb; the head waiter from the coffee-house across comes to the doorway + and looks out. The sentry in front of the hospital ceases pacing and + stands at attention. + </p> + <p> + In the street a small procession comes at the double quick—a handful + of troopers, a black van with tiny, high-barred windows, more troopers. + </p> + <p> + Inside the van a Bulgarian spy going out to death—a swarthy little + man with black eyes and short, thick hands, going out like a gentleman and + a soldier to meet the God of patriots and lovers. + </p> + <p> + The sentry, who was only a soldier from Salzburg with one lung, was also a + gentleman and a patriot. He uncovered his head. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1214 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |