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Page 58

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Wed 24th Dec 2025, 11:12

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart