CHAPTER XXI
Peter had had many things to think over during the ride down themountains. He had the third-class compartment to himself, and sat in acorner, soft hat over his eyes. Life had never been particularly simpleto Peter--his own life, yes; a matter of three meals a day--he had hadfewer--a roof, clothing. But other lives had always touched him closely,and at the contact points Peter glowed, fused, amalgamated. Thus he hadbeen many people--good, indifferent, bad, but all needy. Thus, also,Peter had committed vicarious crimes, suffered vicarious illnesses,starved, died, loved--vicariously.
And now, after years of living for others, Peter was living at last forhimself--and suffering.
Not that he understood exactly what ailed him. He thought he was tired,which was true enough, having had little sleep for two or threenights. Also he explained to himself that he was smoking too much, andresolutely--lighted another cigarette.
Two things had revealed Peter's condition to himself: McLean had said:"You are crazy in love with her." McLean's statement, lacking subtlety,had had a certain quality of directness. Even then Peter, utterlymiserable, had refused to capitulate, when to capitulate would havemeant the surrender of the house in the Siebensternstrasse. And theabsence from Harmony had shown him just where he stood.
He was in love, crazy in love. Every fiber of his long body glowed withit, ached with it. And every atom of his reason told him what mad follyit was, this love. Even if Harmony cared--and at the mere thought hisheart pounded--what madness for her, what idiocy for him! To ask her toaccept the half of--nothing, to give up a career to share his strugglefor one, to ask her to bury her splendid talent and her beauty under abushel that he might wave aloft his feeble light!
And there was no way out, no royal road to fortune by the route he hadchosen; nothing but grinding work, with a result problematical and yearsahead. There were even no legacies to expect, he thought whimsically.Peter had known a chap once, struggling along in gynecology, who hadhad a fortune left him by a G. P., which being interpreted is GratefulPatient. Peter's patients had a way of living, and when they did dropout, as happened now and then, had also a way of leaving Peter an unpaidbill in token of appreciation; Peter had even occasionally helped tobury them, by way, he defended himself, of covering up his mistakes.
Peter, sitting back in his corner, allowed the wonderful scenery to slipby unnoticed. He put Harmony the Desirable out of his mind, and tookto calculating on a scrap of paper what could be done for Harmony theMusician. He could hold out for three months, he calculated, and stillhave enough to send Harmony home and to get home himself on a slow boat.The Canadian lines were cheap. If Jimmy lived perhaps he could take himalong: if not--
He would have to put six months' work in the next three. That was not sohard. He had got along before with less sleep, and thrived on it. Alsothere must be no more idle evenings, with Jimmy in the salon propped ina chair and Harmony playing, the room dark save for the glow from thestove and for the one candle at Harmony's elbow.
All roads lead to Rome. Peter's thoughts, having traveled in a circle,were back again to Harmony the Desirable--Harmony playing in thefirelight, Harmony Hushed over the brick stove, Harmony paring potatoesthat night in the kitchen when he--Harmony! Harmony!
Stewart knew all about the accident and its cause. Peter had surmised asmuch when the injured man failed to ask for Marie.
He tested him finally by bringing Marie's name into the conversation.Stewart ignored it, accepted her absence, refused to be drawn.
That was at first. During the day, however, as he gained strength, hegrew restless and uneasy. As the time approached for Peter to leave, hewas clearly struggling with himself. The landlady had agreed to carefor him and was bustling about the room. During one of her absences heturned to Peter.
"I suppose Marie hasn't been round?"
"She came back last night."
"Did she tell you?"
"Yes, poor child."
"She's a devil!" Stewart said, and lay silent. Then: "I saw her shootthat thing out in front of us, but there was no time--Where is she now?"
"Marie? I sent her to Vienna."
Stewart fell back, relieved, not even curious.
"Thank Heaven for that!" he said. "I don't want to see her again. I'd dosomething I'd be sorry for. The kindest thing to say for her is that shewas not sane."
"No," said Peter gravely, "she was hardly sane."
Stewart caught his steady gaze and glanced away. For him Marie's littletragedy had been written and erased. He would forget it magnanimously.He had divided what he had with her, and she had repaid him byattempting his life. And not only his life, but Anita's. Peter followedhis line of reasoning easily.
"It's quite a frequent complication, Stewart," he said, "but every manto whom it happens regards himself more or less as a victim. She fell inlove with you, that's all. Her conduct is contrary to the ethics of thegame, but she's been playing poor cards all along."
"Where is she?"
"That doesn't matter, does it?"
Stewart had lain back and closed his eyes. No, it didn't matter. A senseof great relief overwhelmed him. Marie was gone, frightened into hiding.It was as if a band that had been about him was suddenly loosed: hebreathed deep, he threw out his arms and laughed from sheer reaction.Then, catching Peter's not particularly approving eyes, he colored.
"Good Lord, Peter!" he said, "you don't know what I've gone through withthat little devil. And now she's gone!" He glanced round the disorderedroom, where bandages and medicines crowded toilet articles on thedressing-table, where one of Marie's small slippers still lay where ithad fallen under the foot of the bed, where her rosary still hung overthe corner of the table. "Ring for the maid, Peter, will you! I've gotto get this junk out of here. Some of Anita's people may come."
During that afternoon ride, while the train clump-clumped down themountains, Peter thought of all this. Some of Marie's "junk" was in hisbag; her rosary lay in his breastpocket, along with the pin he had senther at Christmas. Peter happened on it, still in its box, which lookedas if it had been cried over. He had brought it with him. He admired itvery much, and it had cost money he could ill afford to spend.
It was late when the train drew into the station. Peter, encumbered withMarie's luggage and his own, lowered his window and added his voiceto the chorus of plaintive calls: "Portier! Portier!" they shouted."Portier!" bawled Peter.
He was obliged to resort to the extravagance of a taxicab. Possiblya fiacre would have done as well, but it cost almost as much and wasslower. Moments counted now: a second was an hour, an hour a decade. Forhe was on his way to Harmony. Extravagance became recklessness. As soondie for a sheep as a lamb! He stopped the taxicab and bought a bunch ofviolets, stopped again and bought lilies of the valley to combine withthe violets, went out of his way to the American grocery and bought ajar of preserved fruit.
By that time he was laden. The jar of preserves hung in one shabbypocket, Marie's rosary dangled from another; the violets were buttonedunder his overcoat against the cold.
At the very last he held the taxi an extra moment and darted into thedelicatessen shop across the Siebensternstrasse. From there, standinginside the doorway, he could see the lights in the salon across the way,the glow of his lamp, the flicker that was the fire. Peter whistled,stamped his cold feet, quite neglected--in spite of repeated warningsfrom Harmony--to watch the Herr Schenkenkaufer weigh the cheese,accepted without a glance a ten-Kronen piece with a hole in it.
"And how is the child to-day?" asked the Herr Schenkenkaufer, coveringthe defective gold piece with conversation.
"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 nowhere."
"All well, of course," sang Peter, eyes on the comfortable Floor ofhis lamp, the flicker that was the fire. "Auf wiedersehen, HerrSchenkenkaufer."
"Auf wiedersehen, Herr Doktor."
Violets, lilies-of-the-valle
y, cheese, rosary, luggage--thus Peterclimbed the stairs. The Portier wished to assist him, but Peterdeclined. The Portier was noisy. There was to be a moment when Peter,having admitted himself with extreme caution, would present himselfwithout so much as a creak to betray him, would stand in a doorway untilsome one, Harmony perhaps--ah, Peter!--would turn and see him. She had away 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 asecond surprise. Also he put down the flowers; they were to be broughtin 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 tableto stove in the final excitement of dishing up. There was, however,a highly agreeable odor of stewing chicken, a crisp smell of bakingbiscuit.
In the darkened hall Peter had to pause to steady himself. For he hada sudden mad impulse to shout Harmony's name, to hold out his arms, tocall her to him there in the warm darkness, and when she had come, tocatch her to him, to tell his love in one long embrace, his arms abouther, his rough cheek against her soft one. No wonder he grew somewhatdizzy and had to pull himself together.
The silence rather surprised him, until he recalled that Harmony wasprobably sewing in the salon, as she did sometimes when dinner was readyto serve. The boy was asleep, no doubt. He stole along on tiptoe, hardlybreathing, to the first doorway, which was Jimmy's.
Jimmy was asleep. Round him were the pink and yellow and white flowerfairies with violet heads. Peter saw them and smiled. Then, his eyesgrowing 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 comeback. The two silent figures were too close to tragedy. Peter, with along 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 thestove and laid for Abendessen. The white porcelain coffee-pot hadboiled and extinguished itself, according to its method, and now gentlysteamed.
On to the kitchen. Much odor of food here, two candles lightedbut burning low, a small platter with money on it, quite a littlemoney--almost all he had left Harmony when he went away.
Peter was dazed at first. Even when Marie, hastily summoned, haddiscovered that Harmony's clothing was gone, when a search of the roomsrevealed the absence of her violin and her music, when at last the factstared them, incontestable, in the face, Peter refused to accept it. Hesat for a half-hour or even more by the fire in the salon, obstinatelyrefusing to believe she was gone, keeping the supper warm against herreturn. 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 hewas all alive, sat erect, ears straining for her hand on the knob of theouter 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 knewtoo well. But with his alarm came rage.
Marie had never seen Peter angry. She shrank from this gaunt andgray-faced man who raved up and down the salon, questioning thefrightened Portier, swearing fierce oaths, bringing accusation afteraccusation against some unnamed woman to whom he applied epithets thatMarie's English luckily did not comprehend. Not a particularly heroicfigure was Peter that night: a frantic, disheveled individual, beforewhom the Portier cowered, who struggled back to sanity through a berserkhaze and was liable to swift relapses into fury again.
To this succeeded at last the mental condition that was to be Peter'sfor many days, hopelessness and alarm and a grim determination to keepon searching.
There were no clues. The Portier made inquiries of all the cabstands inthe neighborhood. Harmony had not taken a cab. The delicatessen sellerhad seen her go out that afternoon with a bundle and return without it.She had been gone only an hour or so. That gave Peter a ray of hope thatshe might have found a haven in the neighborhood--until he recalled theparcel-post.
One possibility he clung to: Mrs. Boyer had made the mischief, but shehad also offered the girl a home. She might be at the Boyers'. Peter,flinging on a hat and without his overcoat, went to the Boyers'. Timewas valuable, and he had wasted an hour, two hours, in useless rage. Sohe took a taxicab, and being by this time utterly reckless of cost letit stand while he interviewed the Boyers.
Boyer himself, partially undressed, opened the door to his ring. Peterwas past explanation or ceremonial.
"Is Harmony here?" he demanded.
"Harmony?"
"Harmony Wells. She's disappeared, missing."
"Come in," said Boyer, alive to the strain in Peter's voice. "I don'tknow, I haven't heard anything. I'll ask Mrs. Boyer."
During the interval it took for a whispered colloquy in the bedroom, andfor Mrs. Boyer to don her flannel wrapper, Peter suffered the torturesof the damned. Whatever Mrs. Boyer had meant to say by way of protest atthe intrusion on the sacred privacy of eleven o'clock and bedtime diedin her throat. Her plump and terraced chin shook with agitation, perhapswith guilt. Peter, however, had got himself in hand. He told a quietstory; Boyer listened; Mrs. Boyer, clutching her wrapper about herunstayed figure, listened.
"I thought," finished Peter, "that since you had offered her arefuge--from me--she might have come here."
"I offered her a refuge--before I had been to the Pension Schwarz."
"Ah!" said Peter slowly. "And what about the Pension Schwarz?"
"Need you ask? I learned that you were all put out there. I am obligedto say, Dr. Byrne, that under the circumstances had the girl come here Icould hardly--Frank, I will speak!--I could hardly have taken her in."
Peter went white and ducked as from a physical blow, stumbling outinto the hall again. There he thought of something to say in reply,repudiation, thought better of it, started down the stairs.
Boyer followed him helplessly. At the street door, however, he put hishand on Peter's shoulder. "You know, old man, I don't believe that.These women--"
"I know," said Peter simply. "Thank you. Good-night."
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