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Page 123

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.

The Portier below was polishing floors, right foot, left foot,
any foot at all. And as he polished he sang in a throaty tenor.

"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?

The Portier's wife came to the doorway with a cooking fork in her
hand.

"A cab," she announced, "with a devil's imp on the box. Perhaps
it is that American dancer. Run and pretty thyself!"

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.

The door was not locked. Perhaps Peter was not up--not dressed.
What did that matter? What did anything matter but Peter himself?

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:--

"You are very kind to me. Yes, indeed.

"H. W."

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.

"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!"

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.

"Always," he said incoherently; "forever the two of us. Whatever
comes, Harmony?"

"Whatever comes."

"And you'll not be sorry?"

"Not if you love me."

Peter kissed her on the eyes very solemnly.

"God helping me, I'll be good to you always. And I'll always love
you."

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.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Tue 30th Dec 2025, 7:33

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart