books.jibble.org

Page 56

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.

"She tears my heart from my bosom," muttered the Portier,
sighing, and almost swallowed a screw that he held in his teeth.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

"Then I shall take it off. Peter must be saved!"

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:--

"I am out of patience with Peter," said Anna.

"Why?"

"Because he hasn't fallen in love with you. Where are his eyes?"

"Please, Anna!"

"It's better as it is, no doubt, for both of you. But it's
superhuman of Peter. I wonder--"

"Yes?"

"I think I'll not tell you what I wonder."

And Harmony, rather afraid of Anna's frank speech, did not
insist.

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.

Previous Page | Next Page

Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Wed 24th Dec 2025, 4:09

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart