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Page 88

Marie told her story over the early breakfast, sitting with her
thin elbows on the table, her pointed chin in her palms.

"And now I am sorry," she finished. "It has done no good. If it
had only killed her but she was not much hurt. I saw her rise and
bend over him."

Harmony was silent. She had no stock of aphorisms for the
situation, no worldly knowledge, only pity.

"Did Peter say he would recover?"

"Yes. They will both recover and go to America. And he will marry
her."

Perhaps Harmony would have been less comfortable, Marie less
frank, had Marie realized that this establishment of Peter's was
not on the same basis as Stewart's had been, or had Harmony
divined her thought.

The presence of the boy was discovered by his waking. Marie was
taken in and presented. She looked stupefied. Certainly the
Americans were a marvelous people--to have taken into their house
and their hearts this strange child--if he were strange. Marie's
suspicious little slum mind was not certain.

In the safety and comfort of the little apartment the Viennese
expanded, cheered. She devoted herself to the boy, telling him
strange folk tales, singing snatches of songs for him. The
youngster took a liking to her at once. It seemed to Harmony,
going about her morning routine, that Marie was her solution and
Peter's.

During the afternoon she took a package to the branch post-office
and mailed it by parcel-post to the Wollbadgasse. On the way she
met Mrs. Boyer face to face. That lady looked severely ahead, and
Harmony passed her with her chin well up and the eyes of a
wounded animal.

McLean sent a great box of flowers that day. She put them, for
lack of a vase, in a pitcher beside Jimmy's bed.

At dusk a telegram came to say that Stewart was better and that
Peter was on his way down to Vienna. He would arrive at eight.
Time was very short now--seconds flashed by, minutes galloped.
Harmony stewed a chicken for supper, and creamed the breast for
Jimmy. She fixed the table, flowers in the center, the best
cloth, Peter's favorite cheese. Six o'clock, six-thirty, seven;
Marie was telling Jimmy a fairy tale and making the fairies out
of rosebuds. The studylamp was lighted, the stove glowing,
Peter's slippers were out, his old smoking-coat, his pipe.

A quarter past seven. Peter would be near Vienna now and hungry.
If he could only eat his supper before he learned--but that was
impossible. He would come in, as he always did, and slam the
outer door, and open it again to close it gently, as he always
did, and then he would look for her, going from room to room
until he found her--only to-night he would not find her.

She did not say good-bye to Jimmy. She stood in the doorway and
said a little prayer for him. Marie had made the flower fairies
on needles, and they stood about his head on the pillow--pink and
yellow and white elves with fluffy skirts. Then, very silently,
she put on her hat and jacket and closed the outer door behind
her. In the courtyard she turned and looked up. The great
chandelier in the salon was not lighted, but from the casement
windows shone out the comfortable glow of Peter's lamp.

CHAPTER XXI

Peter had had many things to think over during the ride down the
mountains. He had the third-class compartment to himself, and sat
in a corner, soft hat over his eyes. Life had never been
particularly simple to Peter--his own life, yes; a matter of
three meals a day--he had had fewer--a roof, clothing. But other
lives had always touched him closely, and at the contact points
Peter glowed, fused, amalgamated. Thus he had been many
people--good, indifferent, bad, but all needy. Thus, also, Peter
had committed vicarious crimes, suffered vicarious illnesses,
starved, died, loved--vicariously.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Sat 27th Dec 2025, 4:22

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart