CHAPTER XIV
For two days at Semmering it rained. The Raxalpe and the Schneebergsulked behind walls of mist. From the little balcony of the PensionWaldheim one looked out over a sea of cloud, pierced here and thereby islands that were crags or by the tops of sunken masts that wereevergreen trees. The roads were masses of slippery mud, up which thehorses steamed and sweated. The gray cloud fog hung over everything; thebarking of a dog loomed out of it near at hand where no dog was to beseen. Children cried and wild birds squawked; one saw them not.
During the second night a landslide occurred on the side of the mountainwith a rumble like the noise of fifty trains. In the morning, the rainclouds lifting for a moment, Marie saw the narrow yellow line of theslip.
Everything was saturated with moisture. It did no good to close theheavy wooden shutters at night: in the morning the air of the room wassticky and clothing was moist to the touch. Stewart, confined to thehouse, grew irritable.
Marie watched him anxiously. She knew quite well by what slendertenure she held her man. They had nothing in common, neither speech northought. And the little Marie's love for Stewart, grown to be a part ofher, was largely maternal. She held him by mothering him, by keeping himcomfortable, not by a great reciprocal passion that might in time havebrought him to her in chains.
And now he was uncomfortable. He chafed against the confinement; heresented the food, the weather. Even Marie's content at her unusualleisure 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 curiousthunderstorms of early Alpine winter.
On the night of the second day the weather changed. Marie, awakeningearly, stepped out on to the balcony and closed the door carefullybehind her. A new world lay beneath her, a marvel of glitteringbranches, of white plain far below; the snowy mane of the Raxalpe wasbecome a garment. And from behind the villa came the cheerful sound ofsleigh-bells, of horses' feet on crisp snow, of runners sliding easilyalong frozen roads. Even the barking of the dog in the next yard hadceased rumbling and become sharp staccato.
The balcony extended round the corner of the house. Marie, eagerlydiscovering her new world, peered about, and seeing no one near venturedso far. The road was in view, and a small girl on ski was struggling toprevent a collision between two plump feet. Even as Marie saw her theinevitable happened and she went headlong into a drift. A governess whohad been kneeling before a shrine by the road hastily crossed herselfand ran to the rescue.
It was a marvelous morning, a day of days. The governess and the childwent on out of vision. Marie stood still, looking at the shrine. A drifthad piled about its foot, where the governess had placed a bunch ofAlpine flowers. Down on her knees on the balcony went the littleMarie, regardless of the snow, and prayed to the shrine of the Virginbelow--for what? For forgiveness? For a better life? Not at all. Sheprayed that the heels of the American girl would keep her in out of thesnow.
The prayer of the wicked availeth nothing; even the godly at times mustsuffer disappointment. And when one prays of heels, who can know ofthe yearning back of the praying? Marie, rising and dusting her chilledknees, saw the party of Americans on the road, clad in stout bootsand swinging along gayly. Marie shrugged her shoulders resignedly. Sheshould have gone to the shrine itself; a balcony was not a holyplace. But one thing she determined--the Americans went toward theSonnwendstein. She would advise against the Sonnwendstein for that day.
Marie's day of days had begun wrong after all. For Stewart rose with theSonnwendstein in his mind, and no suggestion of Marie's that in anotherday a path would be broken had any effect on him. He was eager to beoff, 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 seeif the balcony door was securely closed. At a little shop where theystopped to buy mountain sticks she must purchase postcards and send themat once. Stewart was fairly patient: air and exercise were having theireffect.
It was eleven o'clock when, having crossed the valley, they commenced tomount the slope of the Sonnwendstein. The climb was easy; the road woundback 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 hersit on a boulder and rest. The snow was not heavy; he showed her thefootprints of a party that had gone ahead, and to amuse her triedto count the number of people. When he found it was five he grewthoughtful. There were five in Anita's party. Thanks to Marie's delaysthey met the Americans coming down. The meeting was a short one: theparty 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 fallenspirits. What were the Vienna plain and the Styrian Alps to her, withthis impatient and frowning man beside her consulting his watch andcomputing the time until he might see the American again? What wasprayer, if this were its answer?
They descended rapidly, Stewart always in the lead and setting a pacethat Marie struggled in vain to meet. To her tentative and breathlessremarks he made brief answer, and only once in all that time did hevolunteer a remark. They had reached the Hotel Erzherzog in the valley.The hotel was still closed, and Marie, panting, sat down on an edge ofthe 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 sortcould have been met with scorn or with threats; things had changedfor Marie Jedlicka since the day Peter had refused to introduce her toHarmony. Then it had been vanity; now it was life itself.
"What you mean," she said with pale lips, "is that we must not be seentogether at all. Must I--do you wish me to remain a prisoner whileyou--" she choked.
"For Heaven's sake," he broke out brutally, "don't make a scene. Thereare men cutting ice over there. Of course you are not a prisoner. Youmay go where you like."
Marie rose and picked up her muff.
Marie's sordid little tragedy played itself out in Semmering. Stewartneglected her almost completely; he took fewer and fewer meals at thevilla. In two weeks he spent one evening with the girl, and was soirritable that she went to bed crying. The little mountain resort wasfilling up; there were more and more Americans. Christmas was drawingnear and a dozen or so American doctors came up, bringing their familiesfor the holidays. It was difficult to enter a shop without encounteringsome of them. To add to the difficulty, the party at the hotel, findingit crowded there, decided to go into a pension and suggested moving tothe Waldheim.
Stewart himself was wretchedly uncomfortable. Marie's tragedy was hispredicament. He disliked himself very cordially, loathing himself andhis situation with the new-born humility of the lover. For Stewart wasin love for the first time in his life. Marie knew it. She had not livedwith him for months without knowing his every thought, every mood. Shegrew bitter and hard those days, sitting alone by the green stove inthe Pension Waldheim, or leaning, elbows on the rail, looking from thebalcony over the valley far below. Bitter and hard, that is, during hisabsences; he had but to enter the room and her rage died, to bereplaced with yearning and little, shy, tentative advances that he onlytolerated. Wild thoughts came to Marie, especially at night, when thestars 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 thatthey go back to Vienna she openly scoffed.
"Why?" she demanded. "That you may come back here to her, leaving methere?"
"My dear girl," he flung back exasperated, "this affair was not apermanent one. You knew that at the start."
"You have taken me away from m
y work. I have two months' vacation. It isbut one month."
"Go back and let me pay--"
"No!"
In pursuance of the plan to leave the hotel the American party came tosee the Waldheim, and catastrophe almost ensued. Luckily Marie was onthe balcony when the landlady flung open the door, and announced it asStewart's apartment. But Stewart had a bad five minutes and took it out,manlike, on the girl.
Stewart had another reason for not wishing to leave Semmering. Anitawas beautiful, a bit of a coquette, too; as are most pretty women. AndStewart was not alone in his devotion. A member of the party, a NewYorker named Adam, was much in love with the girl and indifferent whoknew it. Stewart detested him.
In his despair Stewart wrote to Peter Byrne. It was characteristic ofPeter that, however indifferent people might be in prosperity, theyalways turned to him in trouble. Stewart's letter concluded:--
"I have made out a poor case for myself; but I'm in a hole, as you cansee. I would like to chuck everything here and sail for home with thesepeople who go in January. But, confound it, Byrne, what am I to do withMarie? And that brings me to what I 've been wanting to say all along,and haven't had the courage to. Marie likes you and you rather likedher, didn't you? You could talk her into reason if anybody could. Nowthat you know how things are, can't you come up over Sunday? It's askinga lot, and I know it; but things are pretty bad."
Peter received the letter on the morning of the day before Christmas. Heread it several times and, recalling the look he had seen more than oncein Marie Jedlicka's eyes, he knew that things were very bad, indeed.
But Peter was a man of family in those days, and Christmas is a familyfestival not to be lightly ignored. He wired to Stewart that he wouldcome up as soon as possible after Christmas. Then, because of the lookin Marie's eyes and because he feared for her a sad Christmas, full ofheartaches and God knows what loneliness, he bought her a most hideousbrooch, which he thought admirable in every way and highly ornamentaland which he could not afford at all. This he mailed, with a cheerygreeting, and feeling happier and much poorer made his way homeward.
The Street of Seven Stars Page 14
