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Page 91

"I do not know; I have been away," said Peter. He almost sang it.

"All is well or I would have heard. Wilhelm the Portier was but
just now here."

"All well, of course," sang Peter, eyes on the comfortable Floor
of his lamp, the flicker that was the fire. "Auf wiedersehen,
Herr Schenkenkaufer."

"Auf wiedersehen, Herr Doktor."

Violets, lilies-of-the-valley, cheese, rosary, luggage--thus
Peter climbed the stairs. The Portier wished to assist him, but
Peter declined. The Portier was noisy. There was to be a moment
when Peter, having admitted himself with extreme caution, would
present himself without so much as a creak to betray him, would
stand in a doorway until some one, Harmony perhaps--ah,
Peter!--would turn and see him. She had a way of putting one
slender hand over her heart when she was startled.

Peter put down the jar of preserved peaches outside. It was to be
a second surprise. Also he put down the flowers; they were to be
brought in last of all. One surprise after another is a
cumulative happiness. Peter did not wish to swallow all his cake
in one bite.

For once he did not slam the outer door, although he very nearly
did, and only caught it at the cost of a bruised finger. Inside
he listened. There was no clatter of dishes, no scurrying back
and forth from table to stove in the final excitement of dishing
up. There was, however, a highly agreeable odor of stewing
chicken, a crisp smell of baking biscuit.

In the darkened hall Peter had to pause to steady himself. For he
had a sudden mad impulse to shout Harmony's name, to hold out his
arms, to call her to him there in the warm darkness, and when she
had come, to catch her to him, to tell his love in one long
embrace, his arms about her, his rough cheek against her soft
one. No wonder he grew somewhat dizzy and had to pull himself
together.

The silence rather surprised him, until he recalled that Harmony
was probably sewing in the salon, as she did sometimes when
dinner was ready to serve. The boy was asleep, no doubt. He stole
along on tiptoe, hardly breathing, to the first doorway, which
was Jimmy's.

Jimmy was asleep. Round him were the pink and yellow and white
flower fairies with violet heads. Peter saw them and smiled.
Then, his eyes growing accustomed to the light, he saw Marie,
face down on the floor, her head on her arms. Still as she was,
Peter knew she was not sleeping, only fighting her battle over
again and losing.

Some of the joyousness of his return fled from Peter, never to
come back. The two silent figures were too close to tragedy.
Peter, with a long breath, stole past the door and on to the
salon. No Harmony there, but the great room was warm and cheery.
The table was drawn near the stove and laid for Abendessen. The
white porcelain coffee-pot had boiled and extinguished itself,
according to its method, and now gently steamed.

On to the kitchen. Much odor of food here, two candles lighted
but burning low, a small platter with money on it, quite a little
money--almost all he had left Harmony when he went away.

Peter was dazed at first. Even when Marie, hastily summoned, had
discovered that Harmony's clothing was gone, when a search of the
rooms revealed the absence of her violin and her music, when at
last the fact stared them, incontestable, in the face, Peter
refused to accept it. He sat for a half-hour or even more by the
fire in the salon, obstinately refusing to believe she was gone,
keeping the supper warm against her return. He did not think or
reason, he sat and waited, saying nothing, hardly moving, save
when a gust of wind slammed the garden gate. Then he was all
alive, sat erect, ears straining for her hand on the knob of the
outer door.

The numbness of the shock passed at last, to be succeeded by
alarm. During all the time that followed, that condition
persisted, fright, almost terror. Harmony alone in the city,
helpless, dependent, poverty-stricken. Harmony seeking employment
under conditions Peter knew too well. But with his alarm came
rage.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Sat 27th Dec 2025, 11:24

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart