CHAPTER VII
For three days Byrne hardly saw Harmony. He was off early in themorning, hurried back to the midday meal and was gone again the momentit was over. He had lectures in the evenings, too, and although helingered for an hour or so after supper it was to find Harmony takenpossession of by the little Bulgarian, seized with a sudden thirst forthings American.
On the evening of the second day he had left Harmony, enmeshed andhelpless in a tangle of language, trying to explain to the littleBulgarian the reason American women wished to vote. Byrne flung down thestairs and out into the street, almost colliding with Stewart.
They walked on together, Stewart with the comfortably rolling gait ofthe man who has just dined well, Byrne with his heavy, rather solidtread. The two men were not congenial, and the frequent intervalswithout speech between them were rather for lack of understanding thanfor that completeness of it which often fathers long silences. Byrne wasthe first to speak after their greeting.
"Marie all right?"
"Fine. Said if I saw you to ask you to supper some night this week."
"Thanks. Does it matter which night?"
"Any but Thursday. We're hearing 'La Boheme.'"
"Say Friday, then."
Byrne's tone lacked enthusiasm, but Stewart in his after-dinner moodfailed to notice it.
"Have you thought any more about our conversation of the other night?"
"What was that?"
Stewart poked him playfully in the ribs.
"Wake up, Byrne!" he said. "You remember well enough. Neither the Daysnor any one else is going to have the benefit of your assistance if yougo on living the way you have been. I was at Schwarz's. It is the doubledrain there that tells on one--eating little and being eaten much. Thoseold walls are full of vermin. Why don't you take our apartment?"
"Yours?"
"Yes, for a couple of months. I'm through with Schleich and Breidaucan't take me for two months. It's Marie's off season and we're going toSemmering for the winter sports. We're ahead enough to take a holiday.And if you want the flat for the same amount you are spending now, orless, you can have it, and--a home, old man."
Byrne was irritated, the more so that he realized that the offer temptedhim. To his resentment was added a contempt of himself.
"Thanks," he said. "I think not."
"Oh, all right." Stewart was rather offended. "I can't do more than giveyou a chance."
They separated shortly after and Byrne went on alone. The snow of Sundayhad turned to a fine rain which had lasted all of Monday and Tuesday.The sidewalks were slimy; wagons slid in the ooze of the streets; andthe smoke from the little stoves in the street-cars followed them indepressing horizontal clouds. Cabmen sat and smoked in the interior ofmusty cabs. The women hod-carriers on a new building steamed like horsesas they worked.
Byrne walked along, his head thrust down into his up-turned collar;moisture gathered on his face like dew, condensed rather thanprecipitated. And as he walked there came before him a vision of thelittle flat on the Hochgasse, with the lamp on the table, and thegeneral air of warmth and cheer, and a figure presiding over the brickstove in the kitchen. Byrne shook himself like a great dog and turned inat the gate of the hospital. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself.
That week was full of disappointments for Harmony. Wherever she turnedshe faced a wall of indifference or, what was worse, an interest thatfrightened her. Like a bird in a cage she beat helplessly againstbarriers of language, of strange customs, of stolidity that were not farfrom absolute cruelty.
She held to her determination, however, at first with hope, then, asthe pension in advance and the lessons at fifty Kronen--also inadvance,--went on, recklessly. She played marvelously those days, cryingout through her violin the despair she had sealed her lips against. OnThursday, playing for the master, she turned to find him flourishinghis handkerchief, and went home in a sort of daze, incredulous that shecould have moved him to tears.
The little Bulgarian was frankly her slave now. He had given up thecoffee-houses that he might spend that hour near her, on the chance ofseeing her or, failing that, of hearing her play. At night in the CafeHungaria he sat for hours at a time, his elbows on the table, a bottleof native wine before him, and dreamed of her. He was very fat, thelittle Georgiev, very swarthy, very pathetic. The Balkan kettle wassimmering in those days, and he had been set to watch the fire. Butinstead he had kindled a flame of his own, and was feeding it with straywords, odd glances, a bit of music, the curve of a woman's hair behindher ears. For reports he wrote verses in modern Greek, and through oneof those inadvertences which make tragedy, the Minister of War down introubled Bulgaria once received between the pages of a report in cipheron the fortifications of the Danube a verse in fervid hexameter thatmade even that grim official smile.
Harmony was quite unconscious. She went on her way methodically: somany hours of work, so many lessons at fifty Kronen, so many afternoonssearching for something to do, making rounds of shops where her Englishmight be valuable.
And after a few weeks Peter Byrne found time to help. After oneexperience, when Harmony left a shop with flaming face and tears in hereyes, he had thought it best to go with her. The first interview,under Peter's grim eyes, was a failure. The shopkeeper was obviouslysuspicious of Peter. After that, whenever he could escape from clinics,Peter went along, but stayed outside, smoking his eternal cigarette, andkeeping a watchful eye on things inside the shop.
Only once was he needed. At that time, suspecting that all was notwell, from the girl's eyes and the leer on the shopkeeper's face, hehad opened the door in time to hear enough. He had lifted the proprietorbodily and flung him with a crash into a glass showcase of ornamentsfor the hair. Then, entirely cheerful and happy, and unmolested by thefrightened clerks, he led Harmony outside and in a sort of atavistictriumph bought her a bunch of valley lilies.
Nevertheless, in his sane moments, Peter knew that things were verybad, indeed. He was still not in love with the girl. He analyzed his ownfeeling very carefully, and that was his conclusion. Nevertheless he dida quixotic thing--which was Peter, of course, all over.
He took supper with Stewart and Marie on Friday, and the idea came tohim there. Hardly came to him, being Marie's originally. The little flatwas cozy and bright. Marie, having straightened her kitchen, brought ina waist she was making and sat sewing while the two men talked. Theirconversation was technical, a new extirpation of the thyroid gland, arecent nephrectomy.
In her curious way Marie liked Peter and respected him. She struggledwith the technicalities of their talk as she sewed, finding here andthere a comprehensive bit. At those times she sat, needle poised,intelligent eyes on the speakers, until she lost herself again in themazes of their English.
At ten o'clock she rose and put away her sewing. Peter saw her get thestone pitcher and knew she was on her way for the evening beer. He tookadvantage of her absence to broach the matter of Harmony.
"She's up against it, as a matter of fact," he finished. "It ought to beeasy enough for her to find something, but it isn't."
"I hardly saw her that day in the coffee-house; but she's ratherhandsome, isn't she?"
"That's one of the difficulties. Yes."
Stewart smoked and reflected. "No friends here at all?"
"None. There were three girls at first. Two have gone home."
"Could she teach violin?"
"I should think so."
"Aren't there any kids in the American colony who want lessons? There'susually some sort of infant prodigy ready to play at any entertainmentsof the Doctors' Club."
"They don't want an American teacher, I fancy; but I suppose I could puta card up in the club rooms. Damn it all!" cried Peter with a burst ofhonest resentment, "why do I have to be poor?"
"If you were rolling in gold you could hardly offer her money, couldyou?"
Peter had not thought of that before. It was the only comfort he foundin his poverty. Marie had brought in the beer and was carefully filli
ngthe mugs. "Why do you not marry her?" she asked unexpectedly. "Then youcould take this flat. We are going to Semmering for the winter sports. Iwould show her about the stove."
"Marry her, of course!" said Peter gravely. "Just pick her up and carryher to church! The trifling fact that she does not wish to marry me needhave nothing to do with it."
"Ah, but does she not wish it?" demanded Marie. "Are you so certain,stupid big one? Do not women always love you?"
Ridiculous as the thought was, Peter pondered it as he went back to thePension Schwarz. About himself he was absurdly modest, almost humble. Ithad never occurred to him that women might care for him for himself.In his struggling life there had been little time for women. But abouthimself as the solution of a problem--that was different.
He argued the thing over. In the unlikely contingency of the girl'sbeing willing, was Stewart right--could two people live as cheaply asone? Marie was an Austrian and knew how to manage--that was different.And another thing troubled him. He dreaded to disturb the delicateadjustment of their relationship; the terra incognita of a younggirl's mind daunted him. There was another consideration which he putresolutely in the back of his mind--his career. He had seen many apromising one killed by early marriage, men driven to the hack work ofthe profession by the scourge of financial necessity. But that was amatter of the future; the necessity was immediate.
The night was very cold. Gusts of wind from the snow-covered Schneebergdrove along the streets, making each corner a fortress defended by theelements, a battlement to be seized, lost, seized again. Peter Byrnebattled valiantly but mechanically. And as he fought he made hisdecision.
He acted with characteristic promptness. Possibly, too, he was afraid ofthe strength of his own resolution. By morning sanity might prevail, andin cold daylight he would see the absurdity of his position. He almostran up the winding staircase. At the top his cold fingers fumbled thekey and he swore under his breath. He slammed the door behind him. Peteralways slammed doors, and had an apologetic way of opening the dooragain and closing it gently, as if to show that he could. Harmony's roomwas dark, but he had surprised her once into a confession that whenshe was very downhearted she liked to sit in the dark and be very blueindeed. So he stopped and knocked. There was no reply, but from Dr.Gates's room across there came a hum of conversation. He knew at oncethat Harmony was there.
Peter hardly hesitated. He took off his soft hat and ran a hand over hishair, and he straightened his tie. These preliminaries to a proposal ofmarriage being disposed of, he rapped at the door.
Anna Gates opened it. She wore a hideous red-flannel wrapper, and indeference to Harmony a thimble. Her flat breast was stuck with pins, andpinkish threads revealed the fact that the bathrobe was still under way.
"Peter!" she cried. "Come in and get warm."
Harmony, in the blue kimono, gave a little gasp, and flung round hershoulders the mass of pink on which she had been working.
"Please go out!" she said. "I am not dressed."
"You are covered," returned Anna Gates. "That's all that any sort ofclothing can do. Don't mind her, Peter, and sit on the bed. Look out forpins!"
Peter, however, did not sit down. He stood just inside the closed doorand stared at Harmony--Harmony in the red light from the littleopen door of the stove; Harmony in blue and pink and a bit of whitepetticoat; Harmony with her hair over her shoulders and tied out of hereyes with an encircling band of rosy flannel.
"Do sit!" cried Anna Gates. "You fill the room so. Bless you, Peter,what a collar!"
No man likes to know his collar is soiled, especially on the eve ofproposing marriage to a pink and blue and white vision. Peter, seatednow on the bed, writhed.
"I rapped at Miss Wells's door," he said. "You were not there."
This last, of course, to Harmony.
Anna Gates sniffed.
"Naturally!"
"I had something to say to you. I--I dare say it is hardly pensionetiquette for you to go over to your room and let me say it there?"
Harmony smiled above the flannel.
"Could you call it through the door?"
"Hardly."
"Fiddlesticks!" said Dr. Gates, rising. "I'll go over, of course, butnot for long. There's no fire."
With her hand on the knob, however, Harmony interfered.
"Please!" she implored. "I am not dressed and I'd rather not." Sheturned to Peter. "You can say it before her, can't you? She--I have toldher all about things."
Peter hesitated. He felt ridiculous for the second time that night.Then:--
"It was merely an idea I had. I saw a little apartment furnished--youcould learn to use the stove, unless, of course, you don't likehousekeeping--and food is really awfully cheap. Why, at thesedelicatessen places and bakeshops--"
Here he paused for breath and found Dr. Gates's quizzical glance fixedon him, and Harmony's startled eyes.
"What I am trying to say," he exploded, "is that I believe if you wouldmarry me it would solve some of your troubles anyhow." He was talkingfor time now, against Harmony's incredulous face. "You'd be taking onothers, of course. I'm not much and I'm as poor--well, you know. It--itwas the apartment that gave me the idea--"
"And the stove!" said Harmony; and suddenly burst into joyous laughter.After a rather shocked instant Dr. Gates joined her. It was real mirthwith Harmony, the first laugh of days, that curious laughter of womenthat is not far from tears.
Peter sat on the bed uncomfortably. He grinned sheepishly and made alast feeble attempt to stick to his guns.
"I mean it. You know I'm not in love with you or you with me, of course.But we are such a pair of waifs, and I thought we might get along. Lordknows I need some one to look after me!"
"And Emma?"
"There is no Emma. I made her up."
Harmony sobered at that.
"It is only"--she gasped a little for breath--"it is only your--yourtransparency, Peter." It was the first time she had called him Peter."You know how things are with me and you want to help me, and out ofyour generosity you are willing to take on another burden. Oh, Peter!"
And here, Harmony being an emotional young person, the tears beat thelaughter to the surface and had to be wiped away under the cover ofmirth.
Anna Gates, having recovered herself, sat back and surveyed them bothsternly through her glasses.
"Once for all," she said brusquely, "let such foolishness end. Peter,I am ashamed of you. Marriage is not for you--not yet, not for a dozenyears. Any man can saddle himself with a wife; not every man can be whatyou may be if you keep your senses and stay single. And the same is truefor you, girl. To tide over a bad six months you would sacrifice thevery thing you are both struggling for?"
"I'm sure we don't intend to do it," replied Harmony meekly.
"Not now. Some day you may be tempted. When that time comes, rememberwhat I say. Matrimonially speaking, each of you is fatal to the other.Now go away and let me alone. I'm not accustomed to proposals ofmarriage."
It was in some confusion of mind that Peter Byrne took himself offto the bedroom with the cold tiled stove and the bed that was ascomfortable as a washtub. Undeniably he was relieved. Also Harmony'sproblem was yet unsolved. Also she had called him Peter.
Also he had said he was not in love with her. Was he so sure of that?
At midnight, just as Peter, rolled in the bedclothing, had managed towarm the cold concavity of his bed and had dozed off, Anna Gates knockedat his door.
"Yes?" said Peter, still comfortably asleep.
"It is Dr. Gates."
"Sorry, Doctor--have to 'xcuse me," mumbled Peter from the blanket.
"Peter!"
Peter roused to a chilled and indignant consciousness and sat up in bed.
"Well?"
"Open the door just a crack."
Resignedly Peter crawled out of bed, carefully turning the coverings upto retain as much heat as possible. An icy blast from the open windowblew round him, setting everything movable in the little room t
oquivering. He fumbled in the dark for his slippers, failed to find them,and yawning noisily went to the door.
Anna Gates, with a candle, was outside. Her short, graying hair was outof its hard knot, and hung in an equally uncompromising six-inch plaitdown her back. She had no glasses, and over the candle-frame she peeredshortsightedly at Peter.
"It's about Jimmy," she said. "I don't know what's got into me, but I'veforgotten for three days. It's a good bit more than time for a letter."
"Great Scott!"
"Both yesterday and to-day he asked for it and to-day he fretted alittle. The nurse found him crying."
"The poor little devil!" said Peter contritely. "Overdue, is it? I'llfix it to-night."
"Leave it under the door where I can get it in the morning. I'm off atseven."
"The envelope?"
"Here it is. And take my candle. I'm going to bed."
That was at midnight or shortly after. Half after one struck from thetwin clocks of the Votivkirche and echoed from the Stephansplatz acrossthe city. It found Peter with the window closed, sitting up in bed, acandle balanced on one knee, a writing-tablet on the other.
He was writing a spirited narrative of a chamois hunt in which he hadtaken part that day, including a detailed description of the quarry,which weighed, according to Peter, two hundred and fifty pounds, Peterbeing strong on imagination and short on facts as regards the Alpinechamois. Then, trying to read the letter from a small boy's point ofview and deciding that it lacked snap, he added by way of postscript aharrowing incident of avalanche, rope, guide, and ice axe. He ended in asort of glow of authorship, and after some thought took fifty pounds offthe chamois.
The letter finished, he put it in a much-used envelope addressed toJimmy Conroy--an envelope that stamped the whole episode as authentic,bearing as it did an undecipherable date and the postmark of a tinyvillage in the Austrian Tyrol.
It was almost two when Peter put out the candle and settled himself tosleep.
It was just two o'clock when the night nurse, making rounds in herward in the general hospital, found a small boy very much awake on hispillow, and taking off her felt slipper shook it at him in pretendedfury.
"Now, thou bad one!" she said. "Awake, when the Herr Doktor orderssleep! Shall I use the slipper?"
The boy replied in German with a strong English accent.
"I cannot sleep. Yesterday the Fraulein Elisabet said that in themountains there are accidents, and that sometimes--"
"The Fraulein Elisabet is a great fool. Tomorrow comes thy letter of acertainty. The post has been delayed with great snows. Thy father hasperhaps captured a great boar, or a--a chamois, and he writes of it."
"Do chamois have horns?"
"Ja. Great horns--so."
"He will send them to me! And there are no accidents?"
"None. Now sleep, or--the slipper."
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