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Page 59

They descended rapidly, Stewart always in the lead and setting a
pace that Marie struggled in vain to meet. To her tentative and
breathless remarks he made brief answer, and only once in all
that time did he volunteer a remark. They had reached the Hotel
Erzherzog in the valley. The hotel was still closed, and Marie,
panting, sat down on an edge of the terrace.

"We have been very foolish," he said.

"Why?"

"Being seen together like that."

"But why? Could you not walk with any woman?"

"It's not that," said Stewart hastily. "I suppose once does not
matter. But we can't be seen together all the time."

Marie turned white. The time had gone by when an incident of the
sort could have been met with scorn or with threats; things had
changed for Marie Jedlicka since the day Peter had refused to
introduce her to Harmony. Then it had been vanity; now it was
life itself.

"What you mean," she said with pale lips, "is that we must not be
seen together at all. Must I--do you wish me to remain a prisoner
while you--" she choked.

"For Heaven's sake," he broke out brutally, "don't make a scene.
There are men cutting ice over there. Of course you are not a
prisoner. You may go where you like."

Marie rose and picked up her muff.

Marie's sordid little tragedy played itself out in Semmering.
Stewart neglected her almost completely; he took fewer and fewer
meals at the villa. In two weeks he spent one evening with the
girl, and was so irritable that she went to bed crying. The
little mountain resort was filling up; there were more and more
Americans. Christmas was drawing near and a dozen or so American
doctors came up, bringing their families for the holidays. It was
difficult to enter a shop without encountering some of them. To
add to the difficulty, the party at the hotel, finding it crowded
there, decided to go into a pension and suggested moving to the
Waldheim.

Stewart himself was wretchedly uncomfortable. Marie's tragedy was
his predicament. He disliked himself very cordially, loathing
himself and his situation with the new-born humility of the
lover. For Stewart was in love for the first time in his life.
Marie knew it. She had not lived with him for months without
knowing his every thought, every mood. She grew bitter and hard
those days, sitting alone by the green stove in the Pension
Waldheim, or leaning, elbows on the rail, looking from the
balcony over the valley far below. Bitter and hard, that is,
during his absences; he had but to enter the room and her rage
died, to be replaced with yearning and little, shy, tentative
advances that he only tolerated. Wild thoughts came to Marie,
especially at night, when the stars made a crown over the Rax,
and in the hotel an orchestra played, while people dined and
laughed and loved.

She grew obstinate, too. When in his desperation Stewart
suggested that they go back to Vienna she openly scoffed.

"Why?" she demanded. "That you may come back here to her, leaving
me there?"

"My dear girl," he flung back exasperated, "this affair was not a
permanent one. You knew that at the start."

"You have taken me away from my work. I have two months'
vacation. It is but one month."

"Go back and let me pay--"

"No!"

In pursuance of the plan to leave the hotel the American party
came to see the Waldheim, and catastrophe almost ensued. Luckily
Marie was on the balcony when the landlady flung open the door,
and announced it as Stewart's apartment. But Stewart had a bad
five minutes and took it out, manlike, on the girl.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Wed 24th Dec 2025, 13:16

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart