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"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.

"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.

"ANITA."

CHAPTER XXV

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.

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.

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?

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?

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Mon 29th Dec 2025, 4:25

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart