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Page 121

"Not even if I ask you to?"

"Not even then, dear. To share my struggle--"

"I see," slowly. "It is to be a struggle?"

"A hard fight, Harmony. I'm a pauper practically."

"And what am I?"

"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."

"People have married, women have married and carried on their
work, too, Peter."

"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."

"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."

"I wonder," Peter cried, "if you realize what love it is that
loves you enough to give you up."

"You have not asked me if I care, Peter."

Peter looked at her. She was very near to tears, very sad, very
beautiful.

"I'm afraid to ask," said Peter, and picking up his hat he made
for the door. There he turned, looked back, was lost.

"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.

He held her off and looked at her.

"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."

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.

"Good-bye, Harmony," he said steadily. "Always in my heart!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Tue 30th Dec 2025, 3:06

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart