CHAPTER XII
The card in the American Doctors' Club brought a response finally.It was just in time. Harmony's funds were low, and the Frau ProfessorBergmeister had gone to St. Moritz for the winter. She regretted theEnglish lessons, but there were always English at St. Moritz and it costnothing to talk with them. Before she left she made Harmony a present."For Christmas," she explained. It was a glass pin-tray, decoratedbeneath with labels from the Herr Professor's cigars and in the center apicture of the Emperor.
The response came in this wise. Harmony struggling home against an eastwind and holding the pin-tray and her violin case, opened the oldgarden gate by the simple expedient of leaning against it. It flew backviolently, almost overthrowing a stout woman in process of egress downthe walk. The stout woman was Mrs. Boyer, clad as usual in the bestbroadcloth and wearing her old sable cape, made over according to heroldest daughter's ideas into a staid stole and muff. The muff lay on thepath now and Mrs. Boyer was gasping for breath.
"I'm so sorry!" Harmony exclaimed. "It was stupid of me; but thewind--Is this your muff?"
Mrs. Boyer took the muff coldly. From its depths she proceeded toextract a handkerchief and with the handkerchief she brushed down thebroadcloth. Harmony stood apologetically by. It is explanatory of Mrs.Boyer's face, attitude, and costume that the girl addressed her inEnglish.
"I backed in," she explained. "So few people come, and no Americans."
Mrs. Boyer, having finished her brushing and responded to this humbleapology in her own tongue, condescended to look at Harmony.
"It really is no matter," she said, still coolly but with indications ofthawing. "I am only glad it did not strike my nose. I dare say it wouldhave, but I was looking up to see if it were going to snow." Here shesaw the violin case and became almost affable.
"There was a card in the Doctors' Club, and I called--" She hesitated.
"I am Miss Wells. The card is mine."
"One of the women here has a small boy who wishes to take violin lessonsand I offered to come. The mother is very busy."
"I see. Will you come in? I can make you a cup of tea and we can talkabout it."
Mrs. Boyer was very willing, although she had doubts about the tea.She had had no good tea since she had left England, and was inclined tosuspect all of it.
They went in together, Harmony chatting gayly as she ran ahead,explaining this bit of the old staircase, that walled-up door, herean ancient bit of furniture not considered worthy of salvage, therea closed and locked room, home of ghosts and legends. To Harmony thiselderly woman, climbing slowly behind her, was a bit of home. Therehad been many such in her life; women no longer young, friends of hermother's who were friends of hers; women to whom she had been wont topay the courtesy of a potted hyacinth at Easter or a wreath at Christmasor a bit of custard during an illness. She had missed them all cruelly,as she had missed many things--her mother, her church, her smallgayeties. She had thought at first that Frau Professor Bergmeistermight allay her longing for these comfortable, middle-aged, placid-eyedfriends of hers. But the Frau Professor Bergmeister had proved to be afrivolous and garrulous old woman, who substituted ease for comfort,and who burned a candle on the name-day of her first husband while hersecond was safely out of the house.
So it was with something of excitement that Harmony led the way up thestairs and into the salon of Maria Theresa.
Peter was there. He was sitting with his back to the door, busilyengaged in polishing the horns of the deer. Whatever scruples Harmonyhad had about the horns, Peter had none whatever, save to get themsafely out of the place and to the hospital. So Peter was polishing thehorns. Harmony had not expected to find him home, and paused, ratherstartled.
"Oh, I didn't know you were home."
Peter spoke without turning.
"Try to bear up under it," he said. "I'm home and hungry, sweetheart!"
"Peter, please!"
Peter turned at that and rose instantly. It was rather dark in the salonand he did not immediately recognize Mrs. Boyer. But that keen-eyedlady had known him before he turned, had taken in the domesticity of thescene and Peter's part in it, and had drawn the swift conclusion of thepure of heart.
"I'll come again," she said hurriedly. "I--I must really get home. Dr.Boyer will be there, and wondering--"
"Mrs. Boyer!" Peter knew her.
"Oh, Dr. Byrne, isn't it? How unexpected to find you here!"
"I live here."
"So I surmised."
"Three of us," said Peter. "You know Anna Gates, don't you?"
"I'm afraid not. Really I--"
Peter was determined to explain. His very eagerness was almost damning.
"She and Miss Wells are keeping house here and have kindly taken me inas a boarder. Please sit down."
Harmony found nothing strange in the situation and was frankly puzzledat Peter. The fact that there was anything unusual in two single womenand one unmarried man, unrelated and comparative strangers, setting uphousekeeping together had never occurred to her. Many a single womanwhom she knew at home took a gentleman into the house as a roomer, andthereafter referred to him as "he" and spent hours airing the curtainsof smoke and even, as "he" became a member of the family, in sewing onhis buttons. There was nothing indecorous about such an arrangement;merely a concession to economic pressure.
She made tea, taking off her jacket and gloves to do it, but bustlingabout cheerfully, with her hat rather awry and her cheeks flushed withexcitement and hope. Just now, when the Frau Professor had gone, theprospect of a music pupil meant everything. An American child, too!Fond as Harmony was of children, the sedate and dignified youngsters whowalked the parks daily with a governess, or sat with folded hands andfixed eyes through hours of heavy music at the opera, rather dauntedher. They were never alone, those Austrian children--always undersurveillance, always restrained, always prepared to kiss the hand ofwhatever relative might be near and to take themselves of to anywhere soit were somewhere else.
"I am so glad you are going to talk to me about an American child," saidHarmony, bringing in the tea.
But Mrs. Boyer was not so sure she was going to talk about the Americanchild. She was not sure of anything, except that the household lookedmost irregular, and that Peter Byrne was trying to cover a difficultsituation with much conversation. He was almost glib, was Peter. The teawas good; that was one thing.
She sat back with her muff on her knee, having refused the concessionof putting it on a chair as savoring too much of acceptance if notapproval, and sipped her tea out of a spoon as becomes a tea-lover.Peter, who loathed tea, lounged about the room, clearly in the way, butfearful to leave Harmony alone with her. She was quite likely, at thefirst opportunity, to read her a lesson on the conventions, if nothingworse; to upset the delicate balance of the little household he wasguarding. So he stayed, praying for Anna to come and bear out his story,while Harmony toyed with her spoon and waited for some mention of thelessons. None came. Mrs. Boyer, having finished her tea, rose and putdown her cup.
"That was very refreshing," she said. "Where shall I find thestreet-car? I walked out, but it is late."
"I'll take you to the car." Peter picked up his old hat.
"Thank you. I am always lost in this wretched town. I give theconductors double tips to put me down where I want to go; but how canthey when it is the wrong car?" She bowed to Harmony without shakinghands. "Thank you for the tea. It was really good. Where do you get it?"
"There is a tea-shop a door or two from the Grand Hotel."
"I must remember that. Thank you again. Good-bye."
Not a word about the lessons or the American child!
"You said something about my card in the Doctors' Club--"
Something wistful in the girl's eyes caught and held Mrs. Boyer.
After all she was the mother of daughters. She held out her hand and hervoice was not so hard.
"That will have to wait until another time. I have made a social visitand we'll not spoil it with
business."
"But--"
"I really think the boy's mother must attend to that herself. But Ishall tell her where to find you, and"--here she glanced at Peter--"allabout it."
"Thank you," said Harmony gratefully.
Peter had no finesse. He escorted Mrs. Boyer across the yard and throughthe gate with hardly a word. With the gate closed behind them he turnedand faced her:--
"You are going away with a wrong impression, Mrs. Boyer."
Mrs. Boyer had been thinking hard as she crossed the yard. The resultwas a resolution to give Peter a piece of her mind. She drew her ampleproportions into a dignity that was almost majesty.
"Yes?"
"I--I can understand why you think as you do. It is quite withoutfoundation."
"I am glad of that." There was no conviction in her voice.
"Of course," went on Peter, humbling himself for Harmony's sake, "Isuppose it has been rather unconventional, but Dr. Gates is not a youngwoman by any means, and she takes very good care of Miss Wells. Therewere reasons why this seemed the best thing to do. Miss Wells was aloneand--"
"There is a Dr. Gates?"
"Of course. If you will come back and wait she'll be along very soon."
Mrs. Boyer was convinced and defrauded in one breath; convinced thatthere might be a Dr. Gates, but equally convinced that the situation wasanomalous and certainly suspicious; defrauded in that she had lost theanticipated pleasure of giving Peter a piece of her mind. She walkedalong beside him without speaking until they reached the street-carline. Then she turned.
"You called her--you spoke to her very affectionately, young man," sheaccused him.
Peter smiled. The car was close. Some imp of recklessness, someperversion of humor seized him.
"My dear Mrs. Boyer," he said, "that was in jest purely. Besides, I didnot know that you were there!"
Mrs. Boyer was a literal person without humor. It was outraged Americanwomanhood incarnate that got into the street-car and settled itsbroadcloth of the best quality indignantly on the cane seat. It wasoutraged American womanhood that flung open the door of Marie Jedlicka'sflat, and stalking into Marie Jedlicka's sitting room confronted herhusband as he read a month-old newspaper from home.
"Did you ever hear of a woman doctor named Gates?" she demanded.
Boyer was not unaccustomed to such verbal attacks. He had learned tomeet domestic broadsides with a shield of impenetrable good humor, or atthe most with a return fire of mild sarcasm.
"I never hear of a woman doctor if it can be avoided."
"Dr. Gates--Anna Gates?"
"There are a number here. I meet them in the hospital, but I don't knowtheir names."
"Where does Peter Byrne live?"
"In a pension, I believe, my dear. Are we going to have anything to eator do we sup of Peter Byrne?"
Mrs. Boyer made no immediate reply. She repaired to the bedroom of MarieJedlicka, and placed her hat, coat and furs on one of the beds with thecrocheted coverlets. It is a curious thing about rooms. There was nochange in the bedroom apparent to the eye, save that for Marie's tinyslippers at the foot of the wardrobe there were Mrs. Boyer's substantialhouse shoes. But in some indefinable way the room had changed. About ithung an atmosphere of solid respectability, of impeccable purity thatsoothed Mrs. Boyer's ruffled virtue into peace. Is it any wonder thatthere is a theory to the effect that things take on the essentialqualities of people who use them, and that we are haunted by things, notpeople? That when grandfather's wraith is seen in his old armchair itis the chair that produces it, while grandfather himself serenely hauntsthe shades of some vast wilderness of departed spirits?
Not that Mrs. Boyer troubled herself about such things. She wasexceedingly orthodox, even in the matter of a hereafter, where the mostorthodox are apt to stretch a point, finding no attraction whatever inthe thing they are asked to believe. Mrs. Boyer, who would have regardedit as heterodox to substitute any other instrument for the harp of herexpectation, tied on her gingham apron before Marie Jedlicka's mirror,and thought of Harmony and of the girls at home.
She told her husband over the supper-table and found him less shockedthan she had expected.
"It's not your affair or mine," he said. "It's Byrne's business."
"Think of the girl!"
"Even if you are right it's rather late, isn't it?"
"You could tell him what you think of him."
Dr. Boyer sighed over a cup of very excellent coffee. Much living with arepresentative male had never taught his wife the reserves among membersof the sex masculine.
"I might, but I don't intend to," he said. "And if you listen to meyou'll keep the thing to yourself."
"I'll take precious good care that the girl gets no pupils," snappedMrs. Boyer. And she did with great thoroughness.
We trace a life by its scars. Destiny, marching on by a thousand painfulsteps, had left its usual mark, a footprint on a naked soul. The soulwas Harmony's; the foot--was it not encased at that moment in Mrs.Boyer's comfortable house shoes?
Anna was very late that night. Peter, having put Mrs. Boyer on her car,went back quickly. He had come out without his overcoat, and with thesunset a bitter wind had risen, but he was too indignant to be cold. Heran up the staircase, hearing on all sides the creaking and banging withwhich the old house resented a gale, and burst into the salon of MariaTheresa.
Harmony was sitting sidewise in a chair by the tea-table with her facehidden against its worn red velvet. She did not look up when he entered.Peter went over and put a hand on her shoulder. She quivered under itand he took it away.
"Crying?"
"A little," very smothered. "Just dis-disappointment. Don't mind me,Peter."
"You mean about the pupil?"
Harmony sat up and looked at him. She still wore her hat, now more thanever askew, and some of the dye from the velvet had stained her cheek.She looked rather hectic, very lovely.
"Why did she change so when she saw you?"
Peter hesitated. Afterward he thought of a dozen things he might havesaid, safe things. Not one came to him.
"She--she is an evil-thinking old woman, Harry," he said gravely.
"She did not approve of the way we are living here, is that it?"
"Yes."
"But Anna?"
"She did not believe there was an Anna. Not that it matters," he addedhastily. "I'll make Anna go to her and explain. It's her infernaljumping to a conclusion that makes me crazy."
"She will talk, Peter. I am frightened."
"I'll take Anna to-night and we'll go to Boyer's. I'll make that womanget down on her knees to you. I'll--"
"You'll make bad very much worse," said Harmony dejectedly. "When athing has to be explained it does no good to explain it."
The salon was growing dark. Peter was very close to her again. As in thedusky kitchen only a few days before, he felt the compelling influenceof her nearness. He wanted, as he had never wanted anything in his lifebefore, to take her in his arms, to hold her close and bid defiance toevil tongues. He was afraid of himself. To gain a moment he put a chairbetween them and stood, strong hands gripping its back, looking down ather.
"There is one thing we could do."
"What, Peter?"
"We could marry. If you cared for me even a little it--it might not beso bad for you."
"But I am not in love with you. I care for you, of course, but--not thatway, Peter. And I do not wish to marry."
"Not even if I wish it very much?"
"No."
"If you are thinking of my future--"
"I'm thinking for both of us. And although just now you think you carea little for me, you do not care enough, Peter. You are lonely and Iam the only person you see much, so you think you want to marry me. Youdon't really. You want to help me."
Few motives are unmixed. Poor Peter, thus accused, could not deny hisaltruism.
And in the face of his poverty and the little he could offer, comparedwith what she must lose, he did not u
rge what was the compelling motiveafter all, his need of her.
"It would be a rotten match for you," he agreed. "I only thought,perhaps--You are right, of course; you ought not to marry."
"And what about you?"
"I ought not, of course."
Harmony rose, smiling a little.
"Then that's settled. And for goodness' sake, Peter, stop proposing tome every time things go wrong." Her voice changed, grew grave and older,much older than Peter's. "We must not marry, either of us, Peter. Annais right. There might be an excuse if we were very much in love: but weare not. And loneliness is not a reason."
"I am very lonely," said Peter wistfully.
The Street of Seven Stars Page 12