“I hardly comprehend it yet. I shall have to have time to think.”
“But if you are going away—I’m afraid to leave you. You’ll think this thing over, alone, and all the rules of life you’ve been taught will come—”
“Please, I must think. I will write you, I promise.”
He caught her hand and crushed it between both of his.
“I suppose you would rather I did not kiss you?” humbly.
“I do not want you to kiss me.”
He released her hand and stood looking down at her in the darkness. If he could only have crushed her to him, made her feel the security of his love, of his sheltering arms! But the barrier of his own building was between them. His voice was husky.
“I want you to try to remember, past what I have told you, to the thing that concerns us both—I love you. I never loved the other woman. I never pretended I loved her. And there will be nothing more like that.”
“I shall try to remember.”
Anita left Semmering the next day, against the protests of the doctor and the pleadings of the chaperon. She did not see Stewart again. But before she left, with the luggage gone and the fiacre at the door, she went out on the terrace, and looked across to the Villa Waldheim, rising from among its clustering trees. Although it was too far to be certain, she thought she saw the figure of a man on the little balcony standing with folded arms, gazing across the valley to the Kurhaus.
Having promised to see Marie, Stewart proceeded to carry out his promise in his direct fashion. He left Semmering the evening of the following day, for Vienna. The strain of the confession was over, but he was a victim of sickening dread. To one thing only he dared to pin his hopes. Anita had said she cared, cared a great deal. And, after all, what else mattered? The story had been a jolt, he told himself. Girls were full of queer ideas of right and wrong, bless them! But she cared. She cared!
He arrived in Vienna at nine o’clock that night. The imminence of his interview with Marie hung over him like a cloud. He ate a hurried supper, and calling up the Doctors’ Club by telephone found Peter’s address in the Siebensternstrasse. He had no idea, of course, that Marie was there. He wanted to see Peter to learn where Marie had taken refuge, and incidentally to get from Peter a fresh supply of moral courage for the interview. For he needed courage. In vain on the journey down had he clothed himself in armor of wrath against the girl; the very compartment in the train provoked softened memories of her. Here they had bought a luncheon, there Marie had first seen the Rax. Again at this station she had curled up and put her head on his shoulder for a nap. Ah, but again, at this part of the journey he had first seen Anita!
He took a car to the Siebensternstrasse. His idea of Peter’s manner of living those days was exceedingly vague. He had respected Peter’s reticence, after the manner of men with each other. Peter had once mentioned a boy he was looking after, in excuse for leaving so soon after the accident. That was all.
The house on the Siebensternstrasse loomed large and unlighted. The street was dark, and it was only after a search that Stewart found the gate. Even then he lost the path, and found himself among a group of trees, to touch the lowest branches of any of which resulted in a shower of raindrops. To add to his discomfort some one was walking in the garden, coming toward him with light, almost stealthy steps.
Stewart by his tree stood still, waiting. The steps approached, were very close, were beside him. So intense was the darkness that even then all he saw was a blacker shadow, and that was visible only because it moved. Then a hand touched his arm, stopped as if paralyzed, drew back slowly, fearfully.
“Good Heavens!” said poor Harmony faintly.
“Please don’t be alarmed. I have lost the path.” Stewart’s voice was almost equally nervous. “Is it to the right or the left?”
It was a moment before Harmony had breath to speak. Then:—
“To the right a dozen paces or so.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I can help you to find it.”
“I know it quite well. Please don’t bother.”
The whole situation was so unexpected that only then did it dawn on Stewart that this blacker shadow was a countrywoman speaking God’s own language. Together, Harmony a foot or so in advance, they made the path.
“The house is there. Ring hard, the bell is out of order.”
“Are you not coming in?”
“No. I—I do not live here.”
She must have gone just after that. Stewart, glancing at the dark facade of the house, turned round to find her gone, and a moment later heard the closing of the gate. He was bewildered. What sort of curious place was this, a great looming house that concealed in its garden a fugitive American girl who came and went like a shadow, leaving only the memory of a sweet voice strained with fright?
Stewart was full of his encounter as he took the candle the Portier gave him and followed the gentleman’s gruff directions up the staircase. Peter admitted him, looking a trifle uneasy, as well he might with Marie in the salon.
Stewart was too preoccupied to notice Peter’s expression. He shook the rain off his hat, smiling.
“How are you?” asked Peter dutifully.
“Pretty good, except for a headache when I’m tired. What sort of a place have you got here anyhow, Byrne?”
“Old hunting-lodge of Maria Theresa,” replied Peter, still preoccupied with Marie and what was coming. “Rather interesting old place.”
“Rather,” commented Stewart, “with goddesses in the garden and all the usual stunts.”
