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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/12476-0.txt b/12476-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..deb745e --- /dev/null +++ b/12476-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4724 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12476 *** + +SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. + +CONTENTS. + +PART I. + +I. A NEW-COMER + +II. WHICH CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS + +III. MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS HER LESSON + +IV. CONCERNING WARLI AND MARIE + +V. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN + +VI. THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE + +VII. BERNARDINE + +VIII. THE STORY MOVES ON AT LAST + +IX. BERNARDINE PREACHES + +X. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT + +XI. "IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE" + +XII. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN MAKES A LOAN + +XIII. A DOMESTIC SCENE + +XIV. CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS + +XV. WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING + +XVI. WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE + +XVII. A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES + +XVIII. A BETROTHAL + +XIX. SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING + +XX. A LOVE-LETTER + +PART II. + +I. THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS + +II. BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK + +III. FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE + +IV. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM + +V. THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE + + + + +SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. + + + + +PART I. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A NEW-COMER. + + +"YES, indeed," remarked one of the guests at the English table, "yes, +indeed, we start life thinking that we shall build a great cathedral, +a crowning glory to architecture, and we end by contriving a mud hut!" + +"I am glad you think so well of human nature," said the Disagreeable Man, +suddenly looking up from the newspaper which he always read during meal- +time. "I should be more inclined to say that we end by being content to +dig a hole, and get into it, like the earth men." + +A silence followed these words; the English community at that end of the +table was struck with astonishment at hearing the Disagreeable Man speak. +The few sentences he had spoken during the last four years at Petershof +were on record; this was decidedly the longest of them all. + +"He is going to speak again," whispered beautiful Mrs. Reffold to her +neighbour. + +The Disagreeable Man once more looked up from his newspaper. + +"Please, pass me the Yorkshire relish," he said in his rough way to a +girl sitting next to him. + +The spell was broken, and the conversation started afresh. But the girl +who had passed the Yorkshire relish sat silent and listless, her food +untouched, and her wine untasted. She was small and thin; her face +looked haggard. She was a new-comer, and had, indeed, arrived at +Petershof only two hours before the _table-d'hôte_ bell rang. But there +did not seem to be any nervous shrinking in her manner, nor any shyness +at having to face the two hundred and fifty guests of the Kurhaus. She +seemed rather to be unaware of their presence; or, if aware of, +certainly indifferent to the scrutiny under which she was being placed. +She was recalled to reality by the voice of the Disagreeable Man. She +did not hear what he said, but she mechanically stretched out her hand +and passed him the mustard-pot. + +"Is that what you asked for?" she said half dreamily; "or was it the +water-bottle?" + +"You are rather deaf, I should think," said the Disagreeable Man +placidly. "I only remarked that it was a pity you were not eating your +dinner. Perhaps the scrutiny of the two hundred and fifty guests in +this civilized place is a vexation to you." + +"I did not know they were scrutinizing," she answered; "and even if +they are, what does it matter to me? I am sure I am quite too tired to +care." + +"Why have you come here?" asked the Disagreeable Man suddenly. + +"Probably for the same reason as yourself," she said; "to get better +or well." + +"You won't get better," he answered cruelly; "I know your type well; +you burn yourselves out quickly. And--my God--how I envy you!" + +"So you have pronounced my doom," she said, looking at him intently. +Then she laughed but there was no merriment in the laughter. + +"Listen," she said, as she bent nearer to him; "because you are +hopeless, it does not follow that you should try to make others +hopeless too. You have drunk deep of the cup of poison; I can see that. +To hand the cup on to others is the part of a coward." + +She walked past the English table, and the Polish table, and so out of +the Kurhaus dining-hall. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS. + + +IN an old second-hand bookshop in London, an old man sat reading +Gibbon's History of Rome. He did not put down his book when the postman +brought him a letter. He just glanced indifferently at the letter, and +impatiently at the postman. Zerviah Holme did not like to be interrupted +when he was reading Gibbon; and as he was always reading Gibbon, an +interruption was always regarded by him as an insult. + +About two hours afterwards, he opened the letter, and learnt that his +niece, Bernardine, had arrived safely in Petershof, and that she +intended to get better and come home strong. He tore up the letter, +and instinctively turned to the photograph on the mantelpiece. It was +the picture of a face young and yet old, sad and yet with possibilities +of merriment, thin and drawn and almost wrinkled, and with piercing eyes +which, even in the dull lifelessness of the photograph, seemed to be +burning themselves away. Not a pleasing nor a good face; yet intensely +pathetic because of its undisguised harassment. + +Zerviah looked at it for a moment. + +"She has never been much to either of us," he said to himself. "And yet, +when Malvina was alive, I used to think that she was hard on Bernardine. +I believe I said so once or twice. But Malvina had her own way of +looking at things. Well, that is over now." + +He then, with characteristic speed, dismissed all thoughts which did not +relate to Roman History; and the remembrance of Malvina, his wife, and +Bernardine, his niece, took up an accustomed position in the background +of his mind. + +Bernardine had suffered a cheerless childhood in which dolls and toys +took no leading part. She had no affection to bestow on any doll, nor +any woolly lamb, nor apparently on any human person; unless, perhaps, +there was the possibility of a friendly inclination towards Uncle +Zerviah, who would not have understood the value of any deeper feeling, +and did not therefore call the child cold-hearted and unresponsive, as +he might well have done. + +This she certainly was, judged by the standard of other children; but +then no softening influences had been at work during her tenderest +years. Aunt Malvina knew as much about sympathy as she did about the +properties of an ellipse; and even the fairies had failed to win little +Bernardine. At first they tried with loving patience what they might do +for her; they came out of their books, and danced and sang to her, and +whispered sweet stories to her, at twilight, the fairies' own time. But +she would have none of them, for all their gentle persuasion. So they +gave up trying to please her, and left her as they had found her, +loveless. What can be said of a childhood which even the fairies have +failed to touch with the warm glow of affection? + +Such a little restless spirit, striving to express itself now in this +direction, now in that; yet always actuated by the same constant force, +_the desire for work_. Bernardine seemed to have no special wish to be +useful to others; she seemed just to have a natural tendency to work, +even as others have a natural tendency to play. She was always in +earnest; life for little Bernardine meant something serious. + +Then the years went by. She grew up and filled her life with many +interests and ambitions. She was at least a worker, if nothing else; +she had always been a diligent scholar, and now she took her place as an +able teacher. She was self-reliant, and, perhaps, somewhat conceited. +But, at least, Bernardine the young woman had learnt something which +Bernardine the young child had not been able to learn: she learnt how +to smile. It took her, about six and twenty years to learn; still, +some people take longer than that; in fact, many never learn. This is +a brief summary of Bernardine Holme's past. + +Then, one day, when she was in the full swing of her many engrossing +occupations: teaching, writing articles for newspapers, attending +socialistic meetings, and taking part in political discussions--she was +essentially a modern product, this Bernardine--one day she fell ill. +She lingered in London for some time, and then she went to Petershof. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS A LESSON. + + +PETERSHOF was a winter resort for consumptive patients, though, indeed, +many people simply needed the change of a bracing climate went there to +spend a few months; and came, away wonderfully better for the mountain +air. This was what Bernardine Holme hoped to do; she was broken down in +every way, but it was thought that a prolonged stay in Petershof might +help her back to a reasonable amount of health, or, at least, prevent +her from slipping into further decline. She had come alone, because she +had no relations except that old uncle, and no money to pay any friend +who might have been willing to come with her. But she probably cared +very little, and the morning after her arrival, she strolled out by +herself, investigating the place where she was about to spend six months. +She was dragging herself along, when she met the Disagreeable Man. She +stopped him. He was not accustomed to be stopped by any one, and he +looked rather astonished. + +"You were not very cheering last night," she said to him. + +"I believe I am not generally considered to be lively," he answered, as +he knocked the snow off his boot. + +"Still, I am sorry I spoke to you as I did," she went on frankly. "It +was foolish of me to mind what you said." + +He made no reference to his own remark, and passing on his way again, +when he turned back and walked with her. + +"I have been here nearly seven years," he said and there was a ring of +sadness in his voice as he spoke, which he immediately corrected. "If +you want to know anything about the place, I can tell you. If you are +able to walk, I can show you some lovely spots, where you will not be +bothered with people. I can take you to a snow fairy-land. If you are +sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not +all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig the +snow away, you will find the tiny buds nestling in their white nursery. +If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you may always see the great +mountains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me. +You are not too ill but that they may be a happiness to you also." + +"Nothing can be much of a happiness to me," she said, half to herself, +and her lips quivered. "I have had to give up so much: all my work, +all my ambitions." + +"You are not the only one who has had to do that," he said sharply. +"Why make a fuss? Things arrange themselves, and eventually we adjust +ourselves to the new arrangement. A great deal of caring and grieving, +phase one; still more caring and grieving, phase two; less caring and +grieving, phase three; no further feeling whatsoever, phase four. +Mercifully I am at phase four. You are at phase one. Make a quick +journey over the stages." + +He turned and left her, and she strolled along, thinking of his words, +wondering how long it would take her to arrive at his indifference. +She had always looked upon indifference as paralysis of the soul, and +paralysis meant death, nay, was worse than death. And here was this man, +who had obviously suffered both mentally and physically, telling her +that the only sensible course was to learn not to care. How could she +learn not to care? All her life long she had studied and worked and +cultivated herself in every direction in the hope of being able to take +a high place in literature, or, in any case, to do something in life +distinctly better than what other people did. When everything was coming +near to her grasp, when there seemed a fair chance of realizing her +ambitions, she had suddenly fallen ill, broken up so entirely in every +way, that those who knew her when she was well, could scarcely recognize +her now that she was ill. The doctors spoke of an overstrained nervous +system: the pestilence of these modern days; they spoke of rest, change +of work and scene, bracing air. She might regain her vitality; she might +not. Those who had played themselves out must pay the penalty. She was +thinking of her whole history, pitying herself profoundly, coming to +the conclusion, after true human fashion, that she was the worst-used +person on earth, and that no one but herself knew what disappointed +ambitions were; she was thinking of all this, and looking profoundly +miserable and martyr-like, when some one called her by her name. She +looked round and saw one of the English ladies belonging to the Kurhaus; +Bernardine had noticed her the previous night. She seemed in capital +spirits, and had three or four admirers waiting on her very words. +She was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a superb fur-trimmed cloak, +a woman of splendid bearing and address. Bernardine looked a +contemptible little piece of humanity beside her. Some such impression +conveyed itself to the two men who were walking with Mrs. Reffold. +They looked at the one woman, and then at the other, and smiled at each +other, as men do smile on such occasions. + +"I am going to speak to this little thing," Mrs. Reffold had said to +her two companions before they came near Bernardine. "I must find out +who she is, and where she comes from. And, fancy, she has come quite +alone. I have inquired. How hopelessly out of fashion she dresses. +And what a hat!" + +"I should not take the trouble to speak to her," said one of the men. +"She may fasten herself on to you. You know what a bore that is." + +"Oh, I can easily snub any one if I wish," replied Mrs. Reffold, +rather disdainfully. + +So she hastened up to Bernardine, and held out her well-gloved hand. + +"I had not a chance of speaking to you last night, Miss Holme," she +said. "You retired so early. I hope you have rested after your journey. +You seemed quite worn out." + +"Thank you," said Bernardine, looking admiringly at the beautiful woman, +and envying her, just as all plain women envy their handsome sisters. + +"You are not alone, I suppose?" continued Mrs. Reffold. + +"Yes, quite alone," answered Bernardine. + +"But you are evidently acquainted with Mr. Allitsen, your neighbour at +table," said Mrs. Reffold; "so you will not feel quite lonely here. +It is a great advantage to have a friend at a place like this." + +"I never saw him before last night," said Bernardine. + +"Is it possible?" said Mrs. Reffold, in her pleasantest voice. "Then +you _have_ made a triumph of the Disagreeable Man. He very rarely deigns +to talk with any of us. He does not even appear to see us. He sits +quietly and reads. It would be interesting to hear what his conversation +is like. I should be quite amused to know what you did talk about." + +"I dare say you would," said Bernardine quietly. + +Then Mrs. Reffold, wishing to screen her inquisitiveness, plunged into a +description of Petershof life, speaking enthusiastically about +everything, except the scenery, which she did not mention. After a time +she ventured to begin once more taking soundings. But some how or other, +those bright eyes of Bernardine, which looked at her so searchingly, +made her a little nervous, and, perhaps, a little indiscreet. + +"Your father will miss you," she said tentatively. + +"I should think probably not," answered Bernardine. "One is not easily +missed, you know." There was a twinkle in Bernardine's eye as she added, +"He is probably occupied with other things!" + +"What is your father?" asked Mrs. Reffold, in her most coaxing tones. + +"I don't know what he is now," answered Bernardine placidly. "But he +was a genius. He is dead." + +Mrs. Reffold gave a slight start, for she began to feel that this +insignificant little person was making fun of her. This would never do, +and before witnesses too. So she gathered together her best resources +and said: + +"Dear me, how very unfortunate: a genius too. Death is indeed cruel. +And here one sees so much of it, that unless one learns to steel one's +heart, one becomes melancholy. Ah, it is indeed sad to see all this +suffering!" (Mrs Reffold herself had quite succeeded in steeling her +heart against her own invalid husband.) She then gave an account of +several bad cases of consumption, not forgetting to mention two +instances of suicide which had lately taken place in Petershof. + +"One gentleman was a Russian," she said. "Fancy coming all the way, +from Russia to this little out-of-the-world place! But people come from +the uttermost ends of the earth, though of course there are many +Londoners here. I suppose you are from London?" + +"I am not living in London now," said Bernardine cautiously. + +"But you know it, without doubt," continued Mrs. Reffold. "There are +several Kensington people here. You may meet some friends: indeed in +our hotel there are two or three families from Lexham Gardens." + +Bernardine smiled a little viciously; looked first at Mrs. Reffold's +two companions with an amused sort of indulgence, and then at the lady +herself. She paused a moment, and then said: + +"Have you asked all the questions you wish to ask? And, if so, may I +ask one of you. Where does one get the best tea?" + +Mrs. Reffold gave an inward gasp, but pointed gracefully to a small +confectionery shop on the other side of the road. Mrs. Reffold did +everything gracefully. + +Bernardine thanked her, crossed the road, and passed into the shop. + +"Now I have taught her a lesson not to interfere with me," said +Bernardine to herself. "How beautiful she is." + +Mrs. Reffold and her two companions went silently on their way. +At last the silence was broken. + +"Well, I'm blessed!" said the taller of the two, lighting a cigar. + +"So am I," said the other, lighting his cigar too. + +"Those are precisely my own feelings," remarked Mrs. Reffold. + +But she had learnt her lesson. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +CONCERNING WÄRLI AND MARIE. + + +WÄRLI, the little hunchback postman, a cheery soul, came whistling up +the Kurhaus stairs, carrying with him that precious parcel of registered +letters, which gave him the position of being the most important person +in Petershof. He was a linguist, too, was Wärli, and could speak broken +English in a most fascinating way, agreeable to every one, but +intelligible only to himself. Well, he came whistling up the stairs +when he heard Marie's blithe voice humming her favourite spinning-song. + +"Ei, Ei!" he said to himself; "Marie is in a good temper to-day. I will +give her a call as I pass." + +He arranged his neckerchief and smoothed his curls; and when he reached +the end of the landing, he paused outside a little glass-door, and, all +unobserved, watched Marie in her pantry cleaning the candlesticks and +lamps. + +Marie heard a knock, and, looking up from her work, saw Wärli. + +"Good day, Wärli," she said, glancing hurriedly at a tiny broken mirror +suspended on the wall. "I suppose you have a letter for me. How +delightful!" + +"Never mind about the letter just now," he said, waving his hand as +though wishing to dismiss the subject. "How nice to hear you singing +so sweetly, Marie! Dear me, in the old days at Grüsch, how often I have +heard that song of the spinning-wheels. You have forgotten the old days, +Marie, though you remember the song." + +"Give me my letter, Wärli, and go about your work," said Marie, +pretending to be impatient. But all the same her eyes looked extremely +friendly. There was something very winning about the hunchback's face. + +"Ah, ah! Marie," he said, shaking his curly head; "I know how it is +with you: you only like people in fine binding. They have not always +fine hearts." + +"What nonsense you talk Wärli!" said Marie "There, just hand me the +oil-can. You can fill this lamp for me. Not too full, you goose! And +this one also, ah, you're letting the oil trickle down! Why, you're +not fit for anything except carrying letters! Here, give me my letter." + +"What pretty flowers," said Wärli. "Now if there is one thing I do like, +it is a flower. Can you spare me one, Marie? Put one in my button-hole, +do!" + +"You are a nuisance this afternoon," said Marie, smiling and pinning a +flower on Wärli's blue coat. Just then a bell rang violently. + +"Those Portuguese ladies will drive me quite mad," said Marie. "They +always ring just when I am enjoying myself?" + +"When you are enjoying yourself!" said Wärli triumphantly. + +"Of course," returned Marie; "I always do enjoy cleaning the oil-lamps; +I always did!" + +"Ah, I'd forgotten the oil-lamps!" said Wärli. + +"And so had I!" laughed Marie. "Na, na, there goes that bell again! +Won't they be angry! Won't they scold at me! Here, Wärli, give me my +letter, and I'll be off." + +"I never told you I had any letter for you," remarked Wärli. "It was +entirely your own idea. Good afternoon, Fräulein Marie." + +The Portuguese ladies' bell rang again, still more passionately this +time; but Marie did not seem to hear nor care. She wished to be +revenged on that impudent postman. She went to the top of the stairs +and called after Wärli in her most coaxing tones: + +"Do step down one moment; I want to show you something!" + +"I must deliver the registered letters," said Wärli, with official +haughtiness. "I have already wasted too much of my time." + +"Won't you waste a few more minutes on me?" pleaded Marie pathetically. +"It is not often I see you now." + +Wärli came down again, looking very happy. + +"I want to show you such a beautiful photograph I've had taken," said +Marie. "Ach, it is beautiful!" + +"You must give one to me," said Wärli eagerly. + +"Oh, I can't do that," replied Marie, as she opened the drawer and took +out a small packet. "It was a present to me from the Polish gentleman +himself. He saw me the other day here in the pantry. I was so tired, +and I had fallen asleep with my broom, just as you see me here. So he +made a photograph of me. He admires me very much. Isn't it nice? and +isn't the Polish gentleman clever? and isn't it nice to have so much +attention paid to one? Oh, there's that horrid bell again! Good +afternoon, Herr Wärli. That is all I have to say to you, thank you." + +Wärli's feelings towards the Polish gentleman were not of the +friendliest that day. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. + + +ROBERT ALLITSEN told Bernardine that she was not likely to be on +friendly terms with the English people in the Kurhaus. + +"They will not care about you, and you will not care about the +foreigners. So you will thus be thrown on your own resources, +just as I was when I came." + +"I cannot say that I have any resources," Bernardine answered. "I don't +feel well enough to try to do any writing, or else it would be +delightful to have the uninterrupted leisure." + +So she had probably told him a little about her life and occupation; +although it was not likely that she would have given him any serious +confidences. Still, people are often surprisingly frank about +themselves, even those who pride themselves upon being the most +reticent mortals in the world. + +"But now, having the leisure," she continued, "I have not the brains!" + +"I never knew any writer who had," said the Disagreeable Man grimly. + +"Perhaps your experience has been limited," she suggested. + +"Why don't you read?" he said. "There is a good library here. It +contains all the books we don't want to read." + +"I am tired of reading," Bernardine said. "I seem to have been reading +all my life. My uncle, with whom I live, keeps, a second-hand book-shop, +and ever since I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. They +have not done me much good, nor any one else either." + +"No, probably not," he said. "But now that you have left off reading, +you will have a chance of learning something, if you live long enough. +It is wonderful how much one does learn when one does not read. It is +almost awful. If you don't care about reading now, why do you not +occupy yourself with cheese-mites?" + +"I do not feel drawn towards cheese-mites." + +"Perhaps not, at first; but all the same they form a subject which is +very engaging. Or any branch of bacteriology." + +"Well, if you were to lend me your microscope, perhaps I might begin." + +"I could not do that," he answered quickly. "I never lend my things." + +"No, I did not suppose you would," she said. "I knew I was safe in +making the suggestion." + +"You are rather quick of perception in spite of all your book reading," +he said. "Yes, you are quite right. I am selfish. I dislike lending my +things, and I dislike spending my money except on myself. If you have +the misfortune to linger on as I do you will know that it is perfectly +legitimate to be selfish in small things, _if one has made the one +great sacrifice_." + +"And what may that be?" + +She asked so eagerly that he looked at her, and then saw how worn and +tired her face was; and the words which he was intending to speak, +died on his lips. + +"Look at those asses of people on toboggans," he said brusquely. "Could +you manage to enjoy yourself in that way? That might do you good." + +"Yes," she said; "but it would not be any pleasure to me." + +She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road. And the +Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a +face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable. + +He had lived nearly seven years at Petershof, and, like many others was +obliged to continue staying there if he wished to continue staying in +this planet. It was not probable that he had any wish to prolong his +frail existence, but he did his duty to his mother by conserving his +life; and this feeble flame of duty and affection was the only lingering +bit of warmth in a heart frozen almost by ill health and disappointed +ambitions. The moralists tell us that suffering ennobles, and that a +right acceptation of hindrances goes towards forming a beautiful +character. But this result must largely depend on the original +character: certainly, in the case of Robert Allitsen, suffering had not +ennobled his mind, nor disappointment sweetened his disposition. His +title of "Disagreeable Man" had been fairly earned, and he hugged it to +himself with a triumphant secret satisfaction. + +There were some people in Petershof who were inclined to believe certain +absurd rumours about his alleged kindness. It was said that on more than +one occasion he had nursed the suffering and the dying in sad Petershof, +and, with all the sorrowful tenderness worthy of a loving mother, had +helped them to take their leave of life. But these were only rumours, +and there was nothing in Robert Allitsen's ordinary bearing to justify +such talk. So the foolish people who, for the sake of making themselves +peculiar, revived these unlikely fictions, were speedily ridiculed and +reduced to silence. And the Disagreeable Man remained the Disagreeable +Man, with a clean record for unamiability. + +He lived a life apart from others. Most of his time was occupied in +photography, or in the use and study of the microscope, or in chemistry. +His photographs were considered to be most beautiful. Not that he showed +them specially to any one; but he generally sent a specimen of his work +to the Monthly Photograph Portfolio, and hence it was that people +learned to know of his skill. He might be seen any fine day trudging +along in company with his photographic apparatus, and a desolate dog, +who looked almost as cheerless as his chosen comrade. Neither the one +took any notice of the other; Allitsen was no more genial to the dog +than he was to the Kurhaus guests; the dog was no more demonstrative +to Robert Allitsen than he was to any one in Petershof. + +Still, they were "something" to each other, that unexplainable +"something" which has to explain almost every kind of attachment. + +He had no friends in Petershof, and apparently had no friends anywhere. +No one wrote to him, except his old mother; the papers which were sent +to him came from a stationer's. + +He read all during meal-time. But now and again he spoke a few words +with Bernardine Holme, whose place was next to him. It never occurred +to him to say good morning, nor to give a greeting of any kind, nor to +show a courtesy. One day during lunch, however, he did take the trouble +to stoop and pick up Bernardine Holme's shawl, which had fallen for the +third time to the ground. + +"I never saw a female wear a shawl more carelessly than you," he said. +"You don't seem to know anything about it." + +His manner was always gruff. Every one complained of him. Every one +always had complained of him. He had never been heard to laugh. Once +or twice he had been seen to smile on occasions when people talked +confidently of recovering their health. It was a beautiful smile worthy +of a better cause. It was a smile which made one pause to wonder what +could have been the original disposition of the Disagreeable Man before +ill-health had cut him off from the affairs of active life. Was he happy +or unhappy? It was not known. He gave no sign of either the one state or +the other. He always looked very ill, but he did not seem to get worse. +He had never been known to make the faintest allusion to his own health. +He never "smoked" his thermometer in public; and this was the more +remarkable in an hotel where people would even leave off a conversation +and say: "Excuse me, Sir or Madam, I must now take my temperature. We +will resume the topic in a few minutes." + +He never lent any papers or books, and he never borrowed any. + +He had a room at the top of the hotel, and he lived his life, amongst +his chemistry bottles, his scientific books, his microscope, and his +camera. He never sat in any of the hotel drawing-rooms. There was +nothing striking nor eccentric about his appearance. He was neither +ugly nor good-looking, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark. +He was thin and frail, and rather bent. But that might be the +description of any one in Petershof. There was nothing pathetic about +him, no suggestion even of poetry, which gives a reverence to suffering, +whether mental or physical. As there was no expression on his face, +so also there was no expression in his eyes: no distant longing, no +far-off fixedness; nothing, indeed, to awaken sad sympathy. + +The only positive thing about him was his rudeness. Was it natural or +cultivated? No one in Petershof could say. He had always been as he was; +and there was no reason to suppose that he would ever be different. + +He was, in fact, like the glacier of which he had such a fine view from +his room; like the glacier, an unchanging feature of the neighbourhood. + +No one loved it better than the Disagreeable Man did; he watched the +sunlight on it, now pale golden, now fiery red. He loved the sky, the +dull grey, or the bright blue. He loved the snow forests, and the +snow-girt streams, and the ice cathedrals, and the great firs patient +beneath their snow-burden. He loved the frozen waterfalls, and the +costly diamonds in the snow. He knew, too, where the flowers nestled +in their white nursery. He was, indeed, an authority on Alpine botany. +The same tender hands which plucked the flowers in the spring-time, +dissected them and laid them bare beneath the microscope. But he did +not love them the less for that. + +Were these pursuits a comfort to him? Did they help him to forget that +there was a time when he, too, was burning with ambition to distinguish +himself, and be one of the marked men of the age? + +Who could say? + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE. + + +COUNTLESS ages ago a Traveller, much worn with journeying, climbed up +the last bit of rough road which led to the summit of a high mountain. +There was a temple on that mountain. And the Traveller had vowed that +he would reach it before death prevented him. He knew the journey was +long, and the road rough. He knew that the mountain was the most +difficult of ascent of that mountain chain, called "The Ideals." But +he had a strongly-hoping heart and a sure foot. He lost all sense of +time, but he never lost the feeling of hope. + +"Even if I faint by the way-side," he said to himself, "and am not +able to reach the summit, still it is something to be on the road +which leads to the High Ideals." + +That was how he comforted himself when he was weary. He never lost +more hope than that; and surely that was little enough. + +And now he had reached the temple. + +He rang the bell, and an old white-haired man opened the gate. He +smiled sadly when he saw the Traveller. + +"_And yet another one_," he murmured. "What does it all mean?" + +The Traveller did not hear what he murmured. + +"Old white-haired man," he said, "tell me; and so I have come at last +to the wonderful Temple of Knowledge. I have been journeying hither all +my life. Ah, but it is hard work climbing up to the Ideals." + +The old man touched the Traveller on the arm. "Listen," he said gently. +"This is not the Temple of Knowledge. And the Ideals are not a chain of +mountains; they are a stretch of plains, and the Temple of Knowledge is +in their centre. You have come the wrong road. Alas, poor Traveller!" + +The light in the Traveller's eyes had faded. The hope in his heart died. +And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff. + +"Can one rest here?" he asked wearily. + +"No." + +"Is there a way down the other side of these mountains?" + +"No." + +"What are these mountains called?" + +"They have no name." + +"And the temple--how do you call the temple?" + +"It has no name!" + +"Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts," said the Traveller. + +And he turned and went. But the old white-haired man followed him. + +"Brother," he said, "you are not the first to come here, but you may be +the last. Go back to the plains, and tell the dwellers in the plains +that the Temple of True Knowledge is in their very midst; any one may +enter it who chooses, the gate is not even closed. The Temple has +always been in the plains, in the very heart of life, and work, and +daily effort. The philosopher may enter, the stone-breaker may enter. +You must have passed it every day of your life; a plain, venerable +building, unlike your glorious cathedrals." + +"I have seen the children playing near it," said the Traveller. "When +I was a child I used to play there. Ah, if I had only known! Well, +the past is the past." + +He would have rested against a huge stone, but that the old white-haired +man prevented him. + +"Do not rest," he said. "If you once rest there, you will not rise again. +When you once rest, you will know how weary you are." + +"I have no wish to go farther," said the Traveller. "My journey is done; +it may have been in the wrong direction, but still it is done." + +"Nay, do not linger here," urged the old man. "Retrace your steps. +Though you are broken-hearted yourself, you may save others from +breaking their hearts. Those whom you meet on this road, you can turn +back. Those who are but starting in this direction you can bid pause +and consider how mad it is to suppose that the Temple of True Knowledge +should have been built on an isolated and dangerous mountain. Tell them +that although God seems hard, He is not as hard as all that. Tell them +that the Ideals are not a mountain range, but their own plains, where +their great cities are built, and where the corn grows, and where men +and women are toiling, sometimes in sorrow and sometimes in joy." + +"I will go," said the Traveller. + +And he started. + +But he had grown old and weary. And the journey was long; and the +retracing of one's steps is more toilsome than the tracing of them. +The ascent, with all the vigour and hope of life to help him, had been +difficult enough; the descent, with no vigour and no hope to help him, +was almost impossible. + +So that it was not probable that the Traveller lived to reach the plains. +But whether he reached them or not, still he had started. + +And not many Travellers do that. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +BERNARDINE. + + +THE crisp mountain air and the warm sunshine began slowly to have their +effect on Bernardine, in spite of the Disagreeable Man's verdict. She +still looked singularly lifeless, and appeared to drag herself about +with painful effort; but the place suited her, and she enjoyed sitting +in the sun listening to the music which was played by a scratchy string +band. Some of the Kurhaus guests, seeing that she was alone and ailing, +made some attempts to be kindly to her. She always seemed astonished +that people should concern themselves about her; whatever her faults +were, it never struck her that she might be of any importance to others, +however important she might be to herself. She was grateful for any +little kindness which was shewn her; but at first she kept very much to +herself, talking chiefly with the Disagreeable Man, who, by the way, +had surprised every one--but no one more than himself--by his unwonted +behaviour in bestowing even a fraction of his companionship on a +Petershof human being. + +There was a great deal of curiosity about her, but no one ventured to +question her since Mrs. Reffold's defeat. Mrs. Reffold herself rather +avoided her, having always a vague suspicion that Bernardine tried to +make fun of her. But whether out of perversity or not, Bernardine never +would be avoided by her, never let her pass by without a few words of +conversation, and always went to her for information, much to the +amusement of Mrs. Reffold's faithful attendants. There was always a +twinkle in Bernardine's eye when she spoke with Mrs. Reffold. She never +fastened herself on to any one; no one could say she intruded. As time +went, on there was a vague sort of feeling that she did not intrude +enough. She was ready to speak if any one cared to speak with her, but +she never began a conversation except with Mrs. Reffold. When people +did talk to her, they found her genial. Then the sad face would smile +kindly, and the sad eyes speak kind sympathy. Or some bit of fun would +flash forth, and a peal of young laughter ring out. It seemed strange +that such fun could come from her. + +Those who noticed her, said she appeared always to be thinking. + +She was thinking and learning. + +Some few remarks roughly made by the Disagreeable Man had impressed her +deeply. + +"You have come to a new world," he said, "the world of suffering. You +are in a fury because your career has been checked, and because you have +been put on the shelf; you, of all people. Now you will learn how many +quite as able as yourself, and abler, have been put on the shelf too, +and have to stay there. You are only a pupil in suffering. What about +the professors? If your wonderful wisdom has left you with any sense at +all, look about you and learn." + +So she was looking, and thinking, and learning. And as the days went by, +perhaps a softer light came into her eyes. + +All her life long, her standard of judging people had been an +intellectual standard, or an artistic standard: what people had done +with outward and visible signs; how far they had contributed to thought; +how far they had influenced any great movement, or originated it; how +much of a benefit they had been to their century or their country; how +much social or political activity, how much educational energy they had +devoted to the pressing need of the times. + +She was undoubtedly a clever, cultured young woman; the great work of +her life had been self-culture. To know and understand, she had spared +neither herself nor any one else. To know, and to use her acquired +knowledge intellectually as teacher and, perhaps, too, as writer, had +been the great aim of her life. Everything that furthered this aim won +her instant attention. It never struck her that she was selfish. One +does not think of that until the great check comes. One goes on, and +would go on. But a barrier rises up. Then, finding one can advance no +further, one turns round; and what does one see? + +Bernardine saw that she had come a long journey. She saw what the +Traveller saw. That was all she saw at first. Then she remembered that +she had done the journey entirely for her own sake. Perhaps it might +not have looked so dreary if it had been undertaken for some one else. + +She had claimed nothing of any one; she had given nothing to any one. +She had simply taken her life in her own hands and made what she could +of it. What had she made of it? + +Many women asked for riches, for position, for influence and authority +and admiration. She had only asked to be able to work. It seemed little +enough to ask. That she asked so little placed her, so she thought, +apart from the common herd of eager askers. To be cut off from active +life and earnest work was a possibility which never occurred to her. + +It never crossed her mind that in asking for the one thing for which +she longed, she was really asking for the greatest thing. Now, in the +hour of her enfeeblement, and in the hour of the bitterness of her +heart, she still prided herself upon wanting so little. + +"It seems so little to ask," she cried to herself time after time. +"I only want to be able to do a few strokes of work. I would be content +now to do so little, if only I might do some. The laziest day-labourer +on the road would laugh at the small amount of work which would content +me now." + +She told the Disagreeable Man that one day. + +"So you think you are moderate in your demands," he said to her. "You +are a most amusing young woman. You are so perfectly unconscious how +exacting you really are. For, after all, what is it you want? You want +to have that wonderful brain of yours restored, so that you may begin +to teach, and, perhaps, write a book. Well, to repeat my former words: +you are still at phase one, and you are longing to be strong enough to +fulfil your ambitions and write a book. When you arrive at phase four, +you will be quite content to dust one of your uncle's books instead: +far more useful work and far more worthy of encouragement. If every one +who wrote books now would be satisfied to dust books already written, +what a regenerated world it would become!" + +She laughed good-temperedly. His remarks did not vex her; or, at least, +she showed no vexation. He seemed to have constituted himself as her +critic, and she made no objections. She had given him little bits of +stray confidence about herself, and she received everything he had to +say with that kind of forbearance which chivalry bids us show to the +weak and ailing. She made allowances for him; but she did more than that +for him: she did not let him see that she made allowances. Moreover, +she recognized amidst all his roughness a certain kind of sympathy which +she could not resent, because it was not aggressive. For to some natures +the expression of sympathy is an irritation; to be sympathized with +means to be pitied, and to be pitied means to be looked down upon. She +was sorry for him, but she would not have told him so for worlds; he +would have shrunk from pity as much as she did. And yet the sympathy +which she thought she did not want for herself, she was silently giving +to those around her, like herself, thwarted, each in a different way +perhaps, still thwarted all the same. + +She found more than once that she was learning to measure people by a +standard different from her former one; not by what they had _done_ or +_been_, but by what they had _suffered_. But such a change as this does +not come suddenly, though, in a place like Petershof, it comes quickly, +almost unconsciously. + +She became immensely interested in some of the guests; and there were +curious types in the Kurhaus. The foreigners attracted her chiefly; a +little Parisian danseuse, none too quiet in her manner, won Bernardine's +fancy. + +"I so want to get better, _chérie_," she said to Bernardine. "Life is so +bright. Death: ah, how the very thought makes one shiver! That horrid +doctor says I must not skate; it is not wise. When was I wise? Wise +people don't enjoy themselves. And I have enjoyed myself, and will +still." + +"How can you go about with that little danseuse?" the Disagreeable Man +said to Bernardine one day. "Do you know who she is?" + +"Yes," said Bernardine; "she is the lady who thinks you must be a very +ill-bred person because you stalk into meals, with your hands in your +pockets. She wondered how I could bring myself to speak to you." + +"I dare say many people wonder at that," said Robert Allitsen rather +peevishly. + +"Oh no," replied Bernardine; "they wonder that you talk to me. They +think I must either be very clever or else very disagreeable." + +"I should not call you clever," said Robert Allitsen grimly. + +"No," answered Bernardine pensively. "But I always did think myself +clever until I came here. Now I am beginning to know better. But it +is rather a shock, isn't it?" + +"I have never experienced the shock," he said. + +"Then you still think you are clever?" she asked. + +"There is only one man my intellectual equal in Petershof, and he is +not here any more," he said gravely. "Now I come to remember, he died. +That is the worst of making friendships here; people die." + +"Still, it is something to be left king of the intellectual world," +said Bernardine. "I never thought of you in that light." + +There was a sly smile about her lips as she spoke, and there was the +ghost of a smile on the Disagreeable Man's face. + +"Why do you talk with that horrid Swede?" he said suddenly. "He is a +wretched low foreigner. Have you heard some of his views?" + +"Some of them," answered Bernardine cheerfully. "One of his views is +really amusing: that it is very rude of you to read the newspaper during +meal-time; and he asks if it is an English custom. I tell him it depends +entirely on the Englishman, and the Englishman's neighbour!" + +So she too had her raps at him, but always in the kindest way. + +He had a curious effect on her. His very bitterness seemed to check in +its growth her own bitterness. The cup of poison of which he himself had +drunk deep, he passed on to her. She drank of it, and it did not poison +her. She was morbid, and she needed cheerful companionship. His dismal +companionship and his hard way of looking at life ought by rights to +have oppressed her. Instead of which she became less sorrowful. + +Was the Disagreeable Man, perhaps, a reader of character? Did he know +how to help her in his own grim gruff way? He himself had suffered so +much; perhaps he did know. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE STORY MOVES ON AT LAST. + + +BERNARDINE was playing chess one day with the Swedish Professor. On the +Kurhaus terrace the guests were sunning themselves, warmly wrapped up to +protect themselves from the cold, and well-provided with parasols to +protect themselves from the glare. Some were reading, some were playing +cards or Russian dominoes, and others were doing nothing. There was a +good deal of fun, and a great deal of screaming amongst the Portuguese +colony. The little danseuse and three gentlemen acquaintances were +drinking coffee, and not behaving too quietly. Pretty Fräulein Müller was +leaning over her balcony carrying on a conversation with a picturesque +Spanish youth below. Most of the English party had gone sledging and +tobogganing. Mrs. Reffold had asked Bernardine to join them, but she had +refused. Mrs. Reffold's friends were anything but attractive to +Bernardine, although she liked Mrs. Reffold herself immensely. There was +no special reason why she should like her; she certainly had no cause to +admire her every-day behaviour, nor her neglect of her invalid husband, +who was passing away, uncared for in the present, and not likely to be +mourned for in the future. Mrs. Reffold was gay, careless, and beautiful. +She understood nothing about nursing, and cared less. So a trained nurse +looked after Mr. Reffold, and Mrs. Reffold went sledging. + +"Dear Wilfrid is so unselfish," she said. "He will not have me stay at +home. But I feel very selfish." That was her stock remark. Most people +answered her by saying: "Oh no, Mrs. Reffold, don't say that." But when +she made the remark to Bernardine, and expected the usual reply, +Bernardine said instead: "Mr. Reffold seems lonely." + +"Oh, he has a trained nurse, and she can read to him," said Mrs. Reffold +hurriedly. She seemed ruffled. + +"I had a trained nurse once," replied Bernardine; "and she could read; +but she would not. She said it hurt her throat." + +"Dear me, how very unfortunate for you," said Mrs. Reffold. "Ah, there +is Captain Graham calling. I must not keep the sledges waiting." + +That was a few days ago, but to-day, when Bernardine was playing chess +with the Swedish Professor, Mrs. Reffold came to her. There was a +curious mixture of shyness and abandon in Mrs. Reffold's manner. + +"Miss Holme," she said, "I have thought of such a splendid idea. Will +you go and see Mr. Reffold this afternoon? That would be a nice little +change for him." + +Bernardine smiled. + +"If you wish it," she answered. + +Mrs. Reffold nodded and hastened away, and Bernardine continued her +game, and, having finished it, rose to go. + +The Reffolds were rich, and lived in a suite of apartments in the more +luxurious part of the Kurhaus. + +Bernardine knocked at the door, and the nurse came to open it. + +"Mrs. Reffold asks me to visit Mr. Reffold," Bernardine said; and the +nurse showed her into the pleasant sitting-room. + +Mr. Reffold was lying on the sofa. He looked up as Bernardine came in, +and a smile of pleasure spread over his wan face. + +"I don't know whether I intrude," said Bernardine; "but Mrs. Reffold +said I might come to see you." + +Mr. Reffold signed to the nurse to withdraw. + +She had never before spoken to him. She had often seen him lying by +himself in the sunshine. + +"Are you paid for coming to me?" asked eagerly. + +The words seemed rude enough, but there was no rudeness in the manner. + +"No, I am not paid," she said gently; and then she took a chair and sat +near him. + +"Ah, that's well!" he said, with a sigh of relief "I'm so tired of paid +service. To know that things are done for me because a certain amount of +francs are given so that those things may be done--well, one gets weary +of it; that's all!" + +There was bitterness in every word he spoke. "I lie here," he said, +"and the loneliness of it--the loneliness of it!" + +"Shall I read to you?" she asked kindly. She did not know what to say +to him. + +"I want to talk first," he replied. "I want to talk first to some one +who is not paid for talking to me. I have often watched you, and +wondered who you were. Why do you look so sad? No one is waiting for +you to die?" + +"Don't talk like that!" she said; and she bent over him and arranged +the cushions for him more comfortably. He looked just like a great lank +tired child. + +"Are you one of my wife's friends?" he asked. + +"I don't suppose I am," she answered gently; "but I like her, all the +same. Indeed, I like her very much. And I think her beautiful!" + +"Ah, she is beautiful!" he said eagerly. "Doesn't she look splendid in +her furs? By Jove, you are right! She is a beautiful woman. I am proud +of her!" + +Then the smile faded from his face. + +"Beautiful," he said half to himself, "but hard." + +"Come now," said Bernardine; "you are surrounded with books and +newspapers. What shall I read to you?" + +"No one reads what I want," he answered peevishly. "My tastes are not +their tastes. I don't suppose you would care to read what I want to +hear!" + +"Well," she said cheerily, "try me. Make your choice." + +"Very well, the _Sporting and Dramatic_," he said. "Read every word of +that. And about that theatrical divorce case. And every word of that +too. Don't you skip, and cheat me." + +She laughed and settled herself down to amuse him. And he listened +contentedly. + +"That is something like literature," he said once or twice. "I can +understand papers of that sort going like wild-fire." + +When he was tired of being read to, she talked to him in a manner that +would have astonished the Disagreeable Man: not of books, nor learning, +but of people she had met and of Places she had seen; and there was fun +in everything she said. She knew London well, and she could tell him +about the Jewish and the Chinese quarters, and about her adventures in +company with a man who took her here, there, and everywhere. + +She made him some tea, and she cheered the poor fellow as he had not +been cheered for months. + +"You're just a little brick," he said, when she was leaving. Then once +more he added eagerly: + +"And you're not to be paid, are you?" + +"Not a single _sou_!" she laughed. "What a strange idea of yours!" + +"You are not offended?" he said anxiously. "But you can't think what a +difference it makes to me. You are not offended?" + +"Not in the least!" she answered. "I know quite well how you mean it. +You want a little kindness with nothing at the back of it. Now, +good-bye!" + +He called her when she was outside the door. + +"I say, will you come again soon?" + +"Yes, I will come to-morrow." + +"Do you know you've been a little brick. I hope I haven't tired you. +You are only a bit of a thing yourself. But, by Jove, you know how to +put a fellow in a good temper!" + +When Mrs. Reffold went down to _table-d'hôte_ that night, she met +Bernardine on the stairs, and stopped to speak with her. + +"We've had a splendid afternoon," she said; "and we've arranged to go +again to-morrow at the same time. Such a pity you don't come! Oh, by +the way, thank you for going to see my husband. I hope he did not tire +you. He is a little querulous, I think. He so enjoyed your visit. Poor +fellow! it is sad to see him so ill, isn't it?" + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +BERNARDINE PREACHES. + + +AFTER this, scarcely a day passed but Bernardine went to see Mr. Reffold. +The most inexperienced eye could have known that he was becoming rapidly +worse. Marie, the chambermaid, knew it, and spoke of it frequently to +Bernardine. + +"The poor lonely fellow!" she said, time after time. + +Every one, except Mrs. Reffold, seemed to recognize that Mr. Reffold's +days were numbered. Either she did not or would not understand. She made +no alteration in the disposal of her time: sledging parties and skating +picnics were the order of the day; she was thoroughly pleased with +herself, and received the attentions of her admirers as a matter of +course. The Petershof climate had got into her head; and it is a +well-known fact that this glorious air has the effect on some people of +banishing from their minds all inconvenient notions of duty and devotion, +and all memory of the special object of their sojourn in Petershof. The +coolness and calmness with which such people ignore their +responsibilities, or allow strangers to assume them, would be an +occasion for humour, if it were not an opportunity for indignation: +though indeed it would take a very exceptionally sober-minded spectator +not to get some fun out of the blissful self-satisfaction and +unconsciousness which characterize the most negligent of 'caretakers.' + +Mrs. Reffold was not the only sinner in this respect. It would have been +interesting to get together a tea-party of invalids alone, and set the +ball rolling about the respective behaviours of their respective friends. +Not a pleasing chronicle: no very choice pages to add to the book of real +life; still, valuable items in their way, representative of the actual as +opposed to the ideal. In most instances there would have been ample +testimony to that cruel monster, known as Neglect. + +Bernardine spoke once to the Disagreeable Man on this subject. She spoke +with indignation, and he answered with indifference, shrugging his +shoulders. + +"These things occur," he said "It is not that they are worse here than +everywhere else; it is simply that they are together in an accumulated +mass, and, as such, strike us with tremendous force. I myself am +accustomed to these exhibitions of selfishness and neglect. I should be +astonished if they did not take place. Don't mix yourself up with +anything. If people are neglected, they _are_ neglected, and there is +the end of it. To imagine that you or I are going to do any good by +filling up the breach, is simply an insanity leading to unnecessarily +disagreeable consequences. I know you go to see Mr. Reffold. Take my +advice, and keep away." + +"You speak like a Calvinist," she answered, rather ruffled, "with the +quintessence of self-protectiveness; and I don't believe you mean a +word you say." + +"My dear young woman," he said, "we are not living in a poetry book +bound with gilt edges. We are living in a paper-backed volume of prose. +Be sensible. Don't ruffle yourself on account of other people. Don't +even trouble to criticize them; it is only a nuisance to yourself. All +this simply points back to my first suggestion: fill up your time with +some hobby, cheese-mites or the influenza bacillus, and then you will +be quite content to let people be neglected, lonely, and to die. You +will look upon it as an ordinary and natural process." + +She waved her hand as though to stop him. + +"There are days," she said, "when I can't bear to talk with you. And +this is one of them." + +"I am sorry," he answered, quite gently for him. And he moved away from +her, and started for his usual lonely walk. + +Bernardine turned home, intending to go to see Mr. Reffold. He had become +quite attached to her, and looked forward eagerly to her visits. He said +her voice was gentle and her manner quiet; there was no bustling vitality +about her to irritate his worn nerves. He was probably an empty-headed, +stupid fellow; but it was none the less sad to see him passing away. + +He called her 'Little Brick.' He said that no other epithet suited her +so exactly. He was quite satisfied now that she was not paid for coming +to see him. As for the reading, no one could read the _Sporting and +Dramatic News_ and the _Era_ so well as Little Brick. Sometimes he +spoke with her about his wife, but only in general terms of bitterness, +and not always complainingly. She listened and said nothing. + +"I'm a chap that wants very little," he said once. "Those who want +little, get nothing." + +That was all he said, but Bernardine knew to whom he referred. + +To-day, as Bernardine was on her way back to the Kurhaus, she was +thinking constantly of Mrs. Reffold, and wondering whether she ought to +be made to realize that her husband was becoming rapidly worse. Whilst +engrossed with this thought, a long train of sledges and toboggans +passed her. The sound of the bells and the noisy merriment made her look +up, and she saw beautiful Mrs. Reffold amongst the pleasure-seekers. + +"If only I dared tell her now," said Bernardine to herself, "loudly and +before them all!" + +Then a more sensible mood came over her. "After all, it is not my +affair," she said. + +And the sledges passed away out of hearing. + +When Bernardine sat with Mr. Reffold that afternoon she did not mention +that she had seen his wife. He coughed a great deal, and seemed to be +worse than usual, and complained of fever. But he liked to have her, +and would not hear of her going. + +"Stay," he said. "It is not much of a pleasure to you, but it is a great +pleasure to me." + +There was an anxious look on his face, such a look as people wear when +they wish to ask some question of great moment, but dare not begin. + +At last he seemed to summon up courage. + +"Little Brick," he said, in a weak low voice, "I have something on my +mind. You won't laugh, I know. You're not the sort. I know you're clever +and thoughtful, and all that; you could tell me more than all the +parsons put together. I know you're clever; my wife says so. She says +only a very clever woman would wear such boots and hats!" + +Bernardine smiled. + +"Well," she said kindly, "tell me." + +"You must have thought a good deal, I suppose," he continued, "about +life and death, and that sort of thing. I've never thought at all. Does +it matter, Little Brick? It's too late now. I can't begin to think. But +speak to me; tell me what you think. Do you believe we get another +chance, and are glad to behave less like curs and brutes? Or is it all +ended in that lonely little churchyard here? I've never troubled about +these things before, but now I know I am so near that gloomy little +churchyard--well, it makes me wonder. As for the Bible, I never cared +to read it, I was never much of a reader, though I've got through two +or three firework novels and sporting stories. Does it matter, Little +Brick?" + +"How do I know?" she said gently. "How does any one know? People say +they know; but it is all a great mystery--nothing but a mystery. +Everything that we say, can be but a guess. People have gone mad over +their guessing, or they have broken their hearts. But still the mystery +remains, and we cannot solve it." + +"If you don't know anything, Little Brick," he said, "at least tell me +what you think: and don't be too learned; remember I'm only a brainless +fellow." + +He seemed to be waiting eagerly for her answer. + +"If I were you," she said, "I should not worry. Just make up your mind +to do better when you get another chance. One can't do more than that. +That is what I shall think of: that God will give each one of us another +chance, and that each one of us will take it and do better--I and you +and every one. So there is no need to fret over failure, when one hopes +one may be allowed to redeem that failure later on. Besides which, life +is very hard. Why, we ourselves recognize that. If there be a God, some +Intelligence greater than human intelligence, he will understand better +than ourselves that life is very hard and difficult, and he will be +astonished not _because we are not better, but because we are not +worse_. At least, that would be my notion of a God. I should not worry, +if I were you. Just make up your mind to do better if you get the +chance, and be content with that." + +"If that is what you think, Little Brick," he answered, "it is quite +good enough for me. And it does not matter about prayers and the Bible, +and all that sort of thing?" + +"I don't think it matters," she said. "I never have thought such things +mattered. What does matter, is to judge gently, and not to come down +like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings. Who are we, any of us, +that we should be hard on others?" + +"And not come down like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings," he +repeated slowly. "I wonder if I have ever judged gently." + +"I believe you have," she answered. + +He shook his head. + +"No," he said; "I have been a paltry fellow. I have been lying here, +and elsewhere too, eating my heart away with bitterness, until you came. +Since then I have sometimes forgotten to feel bitter. A little kindness +does away with a great deal of bitterness." + +He turned wearily on his side. + +"I think I could sleep, Little Brick," he said, almost in a whisper. +"I want to dream about your sermon. And I'm not to worry, am I?" + +"No," she answered, as she stepped noiselessly across the room; "you +are not to worry." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT. + + +ONE specially fine morning a knock came at Bernardine's door. She +opened it, and found Robert Allitsen standing there, trying to recover +his breath. + +"I am going to Loschwitz, a village about twelve miles off," he said. +"And I have ordered a sledge. Do you care to come too?" + +"If I may pay my share," she said. + +"Of course," he answered; "I did not suppose you would like to be paid +for any better than I should like to pay for you." + +Bernardine laughed. + +"When do we start?" she asked. + +"Now," he answered. "Bring a rug, and also that shawl of yours which is +always falling down, and come at once without any fuss. We shall be out +for the whole day. What about Mrs. Grundy? We could manage to take her +if you wished, but she would not be comfortable sitting amongst the +photographic apparatus, and I certainly should not give up my seat to +her." + +"Then leave her at home," said Bernardine cheerily. + +And so they settled it. + +In less than a quarter of an hour they had started; and Bernardine +leaned luxuriously back to enjoy to the full her first sledge-drive. + +It was all new to her: the swift passing through the crisp air without +any sensation of motion; the sleepy tinkling of the bells on the horses' +heads; the noiseless cutting through of the snow-path. + +All these weeks she had known nothing of the country, and now she found +herself in the snow fairy-land of which the Disagreeable Man had often +spoken to her. Around, vast plains of untouched snow, whiter than any +dream of whiteness, jewelled by the sunshine with priceless diamonds, +numberless as the sands of the sea. The great pines bearing their burden +of snow patiently; others, less patient, having shaken themselves free +from what the heavens had sent them to bear. And now the streams, +flowing on reluctantly over ice-coated rocks, and the ice cathedrals +formed by the icicles between the rocks. + +And always the same silence, save for the tinkling of the horses' bells. + +On the heights the quaint chalets, some merely huts for storing wood; on +others, farms, or the homes of peasants; some dark brown, almost black, +betraying their age; others of a paler hue, showing that the sun had not +yet mellowed them into a deep rich colour. And on all alike, the fringe +of icicles. A wonderful white world. + +It was a long time before Bernardine even wished to speak. This +beautiful whiteness may become monotonous after a time, but there is +something very awe-inspiring about it, something which catches the soul +and holds it. + +The Disagreeable Man sat quietly by her side. Once or twice he bent +forward to protect the camera when the sledge gave a lurch. + +After some time they met a procession of sledges laden with timber; +and August, the driver, and Robert Allitsen exchanged some fun and +merriment with the drivers in their quaint blue smocks. The noise of +the conversation, and the excitement of getting past the sledges, +brought Bernardine back to speech again. + +"I have never before enjoyed anything so much," she said. + +"So you have found your tongue," he said. "Do you mind talking a little +now? I feel rather lonely." + +This was said in such a pathetic, aggrieved tone, that Bernardine +laughed and looked at her companion. His face wore an unusually bright +expression. He was evidently out to enjoy himself. + +"_You_ talk," she said; "and tell me all about the country." + +And he told her what he knew, and, amongst other things, about the +avalanches. He was able to point out where some had fallen the previous +year. He stopped in the middle of his conversation to tell her to put up +her umbrella. + +"I can't trouble to hold it for you," he said; "but I don't mind opening +it. The sun is blazing to-day, and you will get your eyes bad if you are +not careful. That would be a pity, for you seem to me rather better +lately." + +"What a confession for you to make of any one!" said she. + +"Oh, I don't mean to say that you will ever get well," he added grimly. +"You seem to have pulled yourself in too many directions for that. You +have tried to be too alive; and, now you are obliged to join the genus +cabbage." + +"I am certainly less ill than I was when I first came," she said; "and I +feel in a better frame of mind altogether. I am learning a good deal in +sad Petershof." + +"That is more than I have done," he answered. + +"Well, perhaps you teach instead," she said. "You have taught me several +things. Now, go on telling me about the country people. You like them?" + +"I love them," he said simply. "I know them well, and they know me. You +see I have been in this district so long now, and have walked about so +much, that the very wood cutters know me; and the drivers give me lifts +on their piles of timber." + +"You are not surly with the poor people, then?" said Bernardine; "though +I must say I cannot imagine you being genial. Were you ever genial, I +wonder?" + +"I don't think that has ever been laid to my charge," he answered. + +The time passed away pleasantly. The Disagreeable Man was scarcely +himself to-day; or was it that he was more like himself? He seemed in a +boyish mood; he made fun out of nothing, and laughed with such young +fresh laughter, that even August, the grave blue-spectacled driver, was +moved to mirth. As for Bernardine, she had to look at Robert Allitsen +several times to be sure that he was the same Robert Allitsen she had +known two hours ago in Petershof. But she made no remark, and showed no +surprise, but met his merriness half way. No one could be a cheerier +companion than herself when she chose. + +At last they arrived at Loschwitz. The sledge wound its way through the +sloshy streets of the queer little village, and finally drew up in front +of the Gasthaus. It was a black sunburnt châlet, with green shutters, +and steps leading up to a green balcony. A fringe of sausages hung from +the roof; red bedding was scorching in the sunshine; three cats were +sunning themselves on the steps; a young woman sat in the green balcony +knitting. There were some curious inscriptions on the walls of the +châlet, and the date was distinctly marked, "1670." + +An old woman over the way sat in her doorway spinning. She looked up as +the sledge stopped before the Gasthaus; but the young woman in the green +balcony went on knitting, and saw nothing. + +A buxom elderly Hausfrau, came out to greet the guests. She wore a +naturally kind expression on her old face, but when she saw who the +gentleman was, the kindness positive increased to kindness superlative. + +She first retired and called out: + +"Liza, Fritz, Liza, Trüdchen, come quickly!" + +Then she came back, and cried: + +"Herr Allitsen, what a surprise!" + +She shook his hand times without number, greeted Bernardine with +motherly tenderness, and interspersed all her remarks with frantic +cries of "Liza, Fritz, Trüdchen, make haste!" + +She became very hot and excited, and gesticulated violently. + +All this time the young woman sat knitting, but not looking up. She +had been beautiful, but her face was worn now, and her eyes had that +vacant stare which betokened the vacant mind. + +The mother whispered to Robert Allitsen: + +"She notices no one now; she sits there always waiting." + +Tears came into the kind old eyes. + +Robert Allitsen went and bent down to the young woman, and held out +his hand. + +"Catharina," he said gently. + +She looked up then, and saw him, and recognized him. + +Then the sad face smiled a welcome. + +He sat near her, and took her knitting in his hand, pretending to +examine what she had done, chatting to her quietly all the time. He +asked her what she had been doing with herself since he had last seen +her, and she said: + +"Waiting. I am always waiting." + +He knew that she referred to her lover, who had been lost in an +avalanche the eve before their wedding morning. That was four years ago, +but Catharina was still waiting. Allitsen remembered her as a bright +young girl, singing in the Gasthaus, waiting cheerfully on the guests: +a bright gracious presence. No one could cook trout as she could; many a +dish of trout had she served up for him. And now she sat in the sunshine, +knitting and waiting, scarcely ever looking up. That was her life. + +"Catharina," he said, as he gave her back her knitting, "do you remember +how you used to cook me the trout?" + +Another smile passed over her face. Yes, she remembered. + +"Will you cook me some to-day?" + +She shook her head, and returned to her knitting. + +Bernardine watched the Disagreeable Man with amazement. She could not +have believed that his manner could be so tender and kindly. The old +mother standing near her whispered: + +"He was always so good to us all; we love him, every one of us. When +poor Catharina was betrothed five years ago, it was to Herr Allitsen we +first told the good news. He has a wonderful way about him--just look at +him with Catharina now. She has not noticed any one for months, but she +knows him, you see." + +At that moment the other members of the household came: Liza, Fritz, and +Trüdchen; Liza, a maiden of nineteen, of the homely Swiss type; Fritz, a +handsome lad of fourteen; and Trüdchen, just free from school, with her +school-satchel swung on her back. There was no shyness in their greeting; +the Disagreeable Man was evidently an old and much-loved friend, and +inspired confidence, not awe. Trüdchen fumbled in his coat pocket, and +found what she expected to find there, some sweets, which she immediately +began to eat, perfectly contented and self-satisfied. She smiled and +nodded at Robert Allitsen, as though to reassure him that the sweets +were not bad, and that she was enjoying them. + +"Liza will see to lunch," said the old mother. "You shall have some +mutton cutlets and some _forellen_. But before she goes, she has +something to tell you." + +"I am betrothed to Hans," Liza said, blushing. + +"I always knew you were fond of Hans," said the Disagreeable Man. +"He is a good fellow, Liza, and I'm glad you love him. But haven't you +just teased him!" + +"That was good for him," Liza said brightly. + +"Is he here to-day?" Robert Allitsen asked. + +Liza nodded. + +"Then I shall take your photographs," he said. + +While they had been speaking, Catharina rose from her seat, and passed +into the house. + +Her mother followed her, and watched her go into the kitchen. + +"I should like to cook the _forellen_," she said very quietly. + +It was months since she had done anything in the house. The old mother's +heart beat with pleasure. + +"Catharina, my best loved child!" she whispered; and she gathered the +poor suffering soul near to her. + +In about half an hour the Disagreeable Man and Bernardine sat down to +their meal. Robert Allitsen had ordered a bottle of Sassella, and he was +just pouring it out when Catharina brought in the _forellen_. + +"Why, Catharina," he said, "you don't mean you've cooked them? Then they +will be good!" She smiled, and seemed pleased, and then went out of the +room. + +Then he told Bernardine her history, and spoke with such kindness and +sympathy that Bernardine was again amazed at him. But she made no remark. + +"Catharina was always sorry that I was ill," he said. "When I stayed +here, as I have done, for weeks together, she used to take every care +of me. And it was a kindly sympathy which I could not resent. In those +days I was suffering more than I have done for a long time now, and she +was very pitiful. She could not bear to hear me cough. I used to tell +her that she must learn not to feel. But you see she did not learn her +lesson, for when this trouble came on her, she felt too much. And you +see what she is." + +They had a cheery meal together, and then Bernardine talked with the +old mother, whilst the Disagreeable Man busied himself with his camera. +Liza was for putting on her best dress, and doing her hair in some +wonderful way. But he would not hear of such a thing. But seeing that +she looked disappointed, he gave in, and said she should be photographed +just as she wished; and off she ran to change her attire. She went up to +her room a picturesque, homely working girl, and she came down a tidy, +awkward-looking young woman, with all her finery on, and all her charm +off. + +The Disagreeable Man grunted, but said nothing. + +Then Hans arrived, and then came the posing, which caused much +amusement. They both stood perfectly straight, just as a soldier stands +before presenting arms. Both faces were perfectly expressionless. The +Disagreeable Man was in despair. + +"Look happy!" he entreated. + +They tried to smile, but the anxiety to do so produced an expression of +melancholy which was too much for the gravity of the photographer. He +laughed heartily. + +"Look as though you weren't going to be photographed," he suggested. +"Liza, for goodness' sake look as though you were baking the bread; +and Hans, try and believe that you are doing some of your beautiful +carving." + +The patience of the photographer was something wonderful. At last he +succeeded in making them appear at their ease. And then he told Liza +that she must go and change her dress, and be photographed now in the +way he wished. She came down again, looking fifty times prettier in her +working clothes. + +Now he was in his element. He arranged Liza and Hans on the sledge of +timber, which had then driven up, and made a picturesque group of them +all: Hans and Liza sitting side by side on the timber, the horses +standing there so patiently after their long journey through the forests, +the driver leaning against his sledge smoking his long china pipe. + +"That will be something like a picture," he said to Bernardine, when the +performance was over. "Now I am going for about a mile's walk. Will you +come with me and see what I am going to photograph, or will you rest +here till I come back?" + +She chose the latter, and during his absence was shown the treasures +and possessions of a Swiss peasant's home. + +She was taken to see the cows in the stalls, and had a lecture given her +on the respective merits of Schneewitchen, a white cow, Kartoffelkuehen, +a dark brown one, and Röslein, the beauty of them all. Then she looked +at the spinning-wheel, and watched the old Hausfrau turn the treadle. +And so the time passed, Bernardine making, good friends of them all. +Catharina had returned to her knitting, and began working, and, as +before, not noticing any one. But Bernardine sat by her side, playing +with the cat, and after a time Catharina looked up at Bernardine's +little thin face, and, after some hesitation, stroked it gently with +her hand. + +"Fräulein is not strong," she said tenderly. "If Fräulein lived here, +I should take care of her." + +That was a remnant of Catharina's past. She had always loved everything +that was ailing and weakly. + +Her hand rested on Bernardine's hand. Bernardine pressed it in kindly +sympathy, thinking the while of the girl's past happiness and present +bereavement. + +"Liza is betrothed," she said, as though to herself. "They don't tell +me; but I know. I was betrothed once." + +She went on knitting. And that was all she said of herself. + +Then after a pause she said: + +"Fräulein is betrothed?" + +Bernardine smiled, and shook her head, and Catharina made no further +inquiries. But she looked up from her work from time to time, and seemed +pleased that Bernardine still stayed with her. At last the old mother +came to say that the coffee was ready, and Bernardine followed her into +the parlour. + +She watched Bernardine drinking the coffee, and finally poured herself +out a cup too. + +"This is the first time Herr Allitsen has ever brought a friend," she +said. "He has always been alone. Fräulein is betrothed to Herr Allitsen-- +is that so? Ah, I am glad. He is so good and, so kind." + +Bernardine stopped drinking her coffee. + +"No, I am not betrothed," she said cheerily. "We are just friends; and +not always that either. We quarrel." + +"All lovers do that," persisted Frau Steinhart triumphantly. + +"Well, you ask him yourself," said Bernardine, much amused. She had +never looked upon Robert Allitsen in that light before. "See, there +he comes!" + +Bernardine was not present at the court martial, but this was what +occurred. Whilst the Disagreeable Man was paying the reckoning, Frau +Steinhart said in her most motherly tones: + +"Fräulein is a very dear young lady: Herr Allitsen has made a wise +choice. He is betrothed at last!" + +The Disagreeable Man stopped counting out the money. + +"Stupid old Frau Steinhart!" he said good-naturedly. "People like myself +don't get betrothed. We get buried instead!" + +"Na, na!" she answered. "What a thing to say--and so unlike you too! +No, but tell me!" + +"Well, I am telling you the truth," he replied. "If you won't believe +me, ask Fräulein herself." + +"I have asked her," said Frau Steinhart, "and she told me to ask you." + +The Disagreeable Man was much amused. He had never thought of Bernardine +in that way. + +He paid the bill, and then did something which rather astonished Frau +Steinhart, and half convinced her. + +He took the bill to Bernardine, told her the amount of her share, and +she repaid him then and there. + +There was a twinkle in her eye as she looked up at him. Then the +composure of her features relaxed, and she laughed. + +He laughed too, but no comment was made upon the episode. Then began +the goodbyes, and the preparations for the return journey. + +Bernardine bent over Catharina, and kissed her sad face. + +"Fräulein will come again?" she whispered eagerly. + +And Bernardine promised. There was something in Bernardine's manner +which had won the poor girl's fancy: some unspoken sympathy, some quiet +geniality. + +Just as they were starting, Frau Steinhart whispered to Robert Allitsen: + +"It is a little disappointing to me, Herr Allitsen. I did so hope you +were betrothed." + +August, the blue-spectacled driver, cracked his whip, and off the horses +started homewards. + +For some time there was no conversation between the two occupants of the +sledge. Bernardine, was busy thinking about the experiences of the day, +and the Disagreeable Man seemed in a brown study. At last he broke the +silence by asking her how she liked his friends, and what she thought +of Swiss home life; and so the time passed pleasantly. + +He looked at her once, and said she seemed cold. + +"You are not warmly clothed," he said. "I have an extra coat. Put it on; +don't make a fuss but do so at once. I know the climate and you don't." + +She obeyed, and said she was all the cosier for it. As they were nearing +Petershof, he said half-nervously: + +"So my friends took you for my betrothed. I hope you are not offended." + +"Why should I be?" she said frankly. "I was only amused, because there +never were two people less lover-like than you and I are." + +"No, that's quite true," he replied, in a tone of voice which betokened +relief. + +"So that I really don't see that we need concern ourselves further in +the matter," she added wishing to put him quite at his ease. "I'm not +offended, and you are not offended, and there's an end of it." + +"You seem to me to be a very sensible young woman in some respects," the +Disagreeable Man remarked after a pause. He was now quite cheerful again, +and felt he could really praise his companion. "Although you have read +so much, you seem to me sometimes to take a sensible view of things. +Now, I don't want to be betrothed to you, any more than I suppose you +want to be betrothed to me. And yet we can talk quietly about the matter +without a scene. That would be impossible with most women." + +Bernardine laughed. "Well, I only know," she said cheerily, "that I have +enjoyed my day very much, and I'm much obliged to you for your +companionship. The fresh air, and the change of surroundings, will have +done me good." + +His reply was characteristic of him. + +"It is the least disagreeable day I have spent for many months," he said +quietly. + +"Let me settle with you for the sledge now," she said, drawing out her +purse, just as they came in sight of the Kurhaus. + +They settled money matters, and were quits. + +Then he helped her out of the sledge, and he stooped to pick up the +shawl she dropped. + +"Here is the shawl you are always dropping," he said. "You're rather +cold, aren't you? Here, come to the restaurant and have some brandy. +Don't make a fuss. I know what's the right thing for you!" + +She followed him to the restaurant, touched by his rough kindness. He +himself took nothing, but he paid for her brandy. + +That evening after _table-d'hôte_, or rather after he had finished his +dinner, he rose to go to his room as usual. He generally went off +without a remark. But to-night he said: + +"Good-night, and thank you for your companionship. It has been my +birthday to-day, and I've quite enjoyed it." + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +"IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE." + + +THERE was a suicide in the Kurhaus one afternoon. A Dutchman, Vandervelt, +had received rather a bad account of himself from the doctor a few days +previously, and in a fit of depression, so it was thought, he had put a +bullet through his head. It had occurred through Marie's unconscious +agency. She found him lying on his sofa when she went as usual to take +him his afternoon glass of milk. He asked her to give him a packet which +was on the top shelf of his cupboard. + +"Willingly," she said, and she jumped nimbly on the chair, and gave him +the case. + +"Anything more?" she asked kindly, as she watched him draw himself up +from the sofa. She thought at the time that he looked wild and strange; +but then, as she pathetically said afterwards, who did not look wild +and strange in the Kurhaus? + +"Yes," he said. "Here are five francs for you." + +She thought that rather unusual too; but five francs, especially coming +unexpectedly like that, were not to be despised, and Marie determined to +send them off to that Mutterli at home in the nut-brown châlet at Grüsch. + +So she thanked Mynheer van Vandervelt, and went off to her pantry to +drink some cold tea which the English people had left, and to clean the +lamps. Having done that, and knowing that the matron was busily engaged +carrying on a flirtation with a young Frenchman, Marie took out her +writing materials, and began a letter to her old mother. These peasants +know how to love each other, and some of them know how to tell each +other too. Marie knew. And she told her mother of the gifts she was +bringing home, the little nothings given her by the guests. + +She was very happy writing this letter: the little nut-brown home rose +before her. + +"Ach!" she said, "how I long to be home!" + +And then she put down her pen, and sighed. + +"Ach!" she said, "and when I'm there, I shall long to be here. _Da wo +ich nicht bin, da ist das Gluck_." + +Marie was something of a philosopher. + +Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, followed by a second report. +She dashed out of her little pantry, and ran in the direction of the +sound. She saw Wärli in the passage. He was looking scared, and his +letters had fallen to the ground. He pointed to No. 54. + +It was the Dutchman's room. + +Help arrived. The door was forced open, and Vandervelt was found dead. +The case from which he had taken the pistol was lying on the sofa. When +Marie saw that, she knew that she had been an unconscious accomplice. +Her tender heart overflowed with grief. + +Whilst others were lifting him up, she leaned her head against the wall, +and sobbed. + +"It was my fault, it was my fault!" she cried. "I gave him the case. +But how was I to know?" + +They took her away, and tried to comfort her, but it was all in vain. + +"And he gave me five francs," she sobbed. "I shudder to think of them." + +It was all in vain that Wärli gave her a letter for which she had been +longing for many days. + +"It is from your _Mutterli_," he said, as he put it into her hands. "I +give it willingly. I don't like the look of one or two of the letters +I have to give you, Mariechen. That Hans writes to you. Confound him!" + +But nothing could cheer her. Wärli went away shaking his curly head +sadly, shocked at the death of the Dutchman, and shocked at Marie's +sorrow. And the cheery little postman did not do much whistling that +evening. + +Bernardine heard of Marie's trouble, and rang for her to come. Marie +answered the bell, looking the picture of misery. Her kind face was +tear-stained, and her only voice was a sob. + +Bernardine drew the girl to her. + +"Poor old Marie," she whispered. "Come and cry your kind heart out, and +then you will feel better. Sit by me here, and don't try to speak. And +I will make you some tea in true English fashion, and you must take it +hot, and it will do you good." + +The simple sisterly kindness and silent sympathy soothed Marie after a +time. The sobs ceased, and the tears also. And Marie put her hand in her +pocket and gave Bernardine the five francs. + +"Fräulein Holme, I hate them." she said. "I could never keep them. How +could I send them now to my old mother? They would bring her ill luck-- +indeed they would." + +The matter was solved by Bernardine in a masterly fashion. She suggested +that Marie should buy flowers with the money, and put them on the +Dutchman's coffin. This idea comforted Marie beyond Bernardine's most +sanguine expectations. + +"A beautiful tin wreath," she said several times. "I know the exact kind. +When my father died, we put one on his grave." + +That same evening, during _table-d'hôte_, Bernardine told the Disagreeable +Man the history of the afternoon. He had been developing photographs, +and had heard nothing. He seemed very little interested in her relation +of the suicide, and merely remarked: + +"Well, there's one person less in the world." + +"I think you make these remarks from habit," Bernardine said quietly, +and she went on with her dinner, attempting no further conversation with +him. She herself had been much moved by the sad occurrence; every one +in the Kurhaus was more or less upset; and there was a thoughtful, +anxious expression on more than one ordinarily thoughtless face. The +little French danseuse was quiet: the Portuguese ladies were decidedly +tearful, the vulgar German Baroness was quite depressed: the comedian at +the Belgian table ate his dinner in silence. In fact, there was a weight +pressing down on all. Was it really possible, thought Bernardine, that +Robert Allitsen was the only one there unconcerned and unmoved? She had +seen him in a different light amongst his friends, the country folk, +but it was just a glimpse which had not lasted long. The young- +heartedness, the geniality, the sympathy which had so astonished her +during their day's outing, astonished her still more by their total +disappearance. The gruffness had returned: or had it never been absent? +The lovelessness and leadenness of his temperament had once more +asserted themselves: or was it that they had never for one single day +been in the background? + +These thoughts passed through her mind as he sat next to her reading his +paper--that paper which he never passed on to any one. She hardened her +heart against him; there was no need for ill-health and disappointment +to have brought any one to a miserable state of indifference like that. +Then she looked at his wan face and frail form, and her heart softened +at once. At the moment when her heart softened to him, he astonished her +by handing her his paper. + +"Here is something to interest you," he said, "an article on Realism in +Fiction, or some nonsense like that. You needn't read it now. I don't +want the paper again.'' + +"I thought you never lent anything," she said, as she glanced at the +article, "much less gave it." + +"Giving and lending are not usually in my line," he replied. "I think I +told you once that I thought selfishness perfectly desirable and +legitimate, if one had made the one great sacrifice." + +"Yes," she said eagerly, "I have often wondered what you considered the +one great sacrifice." + +"Come out into the air," he answered, "and I will tell you." + +She went to put on her cloak and, hat, and found him waiting for her at +the top of the staircase. They passed out into the beautiful night: the +sky was radiantly bejewelled, the air crisp and cold, and harmless to do +ill. In the distance, the jodelling of some peasants. In the hotels, the +fun and merriment, side by side with the suffering and hopelessness. In +the deaconess's house, the body of the Dutchman. In God's heavens, God's +stars. + +Robert Allitsen and Bernardine walked silently for some time. + +"Well," she said, "now tell me." + +"The one great sacrifice," he said half to himself, "is the going on +living one's life for the sake of another, when everything that would +seem to make life acceptable has been wrenched away, not the pleasures, +but the duties, and the possibilities of expressing one's energies, +either in one direction or another: when, in fact, living is only a +long tedious dying. If one has made this sacrifice, everything else +may be forgiven." + +He paused a moment, and then continued: + +"I have made this sacrifice, therefore I consider I have done my part +without flinching. The greatest thing I had to give up, I gave up: my +death. More could not be required of any one!" + +He paused again, and Bernardine was silent from mere awe. + +"But freedom comes at last," he said, "and some day I shall be free. +When my mother dies, I shall be free. She is old. If I were to die, I +should break her heart, or, rather she would fancy that her heart was +broken. (And it comes to the same thing). And I should not like to give +her more grief than she has had. So I am just waiting, it may be months, +or weeks, or years. But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt +anything else, I have learnt how to wait. And then" . . . . + +Bernardine had unconsciously put her hand on his arm; her face was full +of suffering. + +"And then?" she asked, with almost painful eagerness. + +"And then I shall follow your Dutchman's example," he said deliberately. + +Bernardine's hand fell from the Disagreeable Man's arm. + +She shivered. + +"You are cold, you little thing," he said, almost tenderly for him. +"You are shivering." + +"Was I?" she said, with a short laugh. "I was wondering when you would +get your freedom, and whether you would use it in the fashion you now +intend!" + +"Why should there be any doubt?" he asked. + +"One always hopes there would be a doubt," she said, half in a whisper. + +Then he looked up, and saw all the pain on the little face. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN MAKES A LOAN. + + +THE Dutchman was buried in the little cemetery which faced the hospital. +Marie's tin wreath was placed on the grave. And there the matter ended. +The Kurhaus guests recovered from their depression: the German Baroness +returned to her buoyant vulgarity, the little danseuse to her busy +flirtations. The French Marchioness, celebrated in Parisian circles for +her domestic virtues, from which she was now taking a holiday, and a +very considerable holiday too, gathered her nerves together again and +took renewed pleasure in the society of the Russian gentleman. The +French Marchioness had already been requested to leave three other +hotels in Petershof; but it was not at all probable that the proprietors +of the Kurhaus would have presumed to measure Madame's morality or +immorality. The Kurhaus committee had a benign indulgence for humanity-- +provided of course that humanity had a purse--an indulgence which some +of the English hotels would not have done badly to imitate. There was a +story afloat concerning the English quarter, that a tired little English +lady, of no importance to look at, probably not rich, and probably not +handsome, came to the most respectable hotel in Petershof, thinking to +find there the peace and quiet which her weariness required. + +But no one knew who the little lady was, whence she had come, and why. +She kept entirely to herself, and was thankful for the luxury of +loneliness after some overwhelming sorrow. + +One day she was requested to go. The proprietor of the hotel was +distressed, but he could not do otherwise than comply with the demands +of his guests. + +"It is not known who you are, Mademoiselle," he said. "And you are not +approved of. You English are curious people. But what can I do? You +have a cheap room, and are a stranger to me. The others have expensive +apartments, and come year after year. You see my position, Mademoiselle? +I am sorry." + +So the little tired lady had to go. That was how the story went. It was +not known what became of her, but it was known that the English people +in the Kurhaus tried to persuade her to come to them. But she had lost +heart, and left in distress. + +This could not have happened in the Kurhaus, where all were received on +equal terms, those about whom nothing was known, and those about whom +too much was known. The strange mixture and the contrasts of character +afforded endless scope for observation and amusement, and Bernardine, +who was daily becoming more interested in her surroundings, felt that +she would have been sorry to have exchanged her present abode for the +English quarter. The amusing part of it was that the English people in +the Kurhaus were regarded by their compatriots in the English quarter +as sheep of the blackest dye! This was all the more ridiculous because +with two exceptions--firstly of Mrs. Reffold, who took nearly all her +pleasures with the American colony in the Grand Hotel; and secondly, +of a Scotch widow who had returned to Petershof to weep over her +husband's grave, but put away her grief together with her widow's +weeds, and consoled herself with a Spanish gentleman--with these two +exceptions, the little English community in the Kurhaus was most humdrum +and harmless, being occupied, as in the case of the Disagreeable Man, +with cameras and cheese-mites, or in other cases with the still more +engrossing pastime of taking care of one's ill-health, whether real or +fancied: but yet, an innocent hobby in itself and giving one absolutely +no leisure to do anything worse: a great recommendation for any pastime. + +This was not Bernardine's occupation: it was difficult to say what she +did with herself, for she had not yet followed Robert Allitsen's advice +and taken up some definite work: and the very fact that she had no such +wish, pointed probably to a state of health which forbade it. She, +naturally so keen and hard-working, was content to take what the hour +brought, and the hour brought various things: chess with the Swedish +professor, or Russian dominoes with the shrivelled-up little Polish +governess who always tried to cheat, and who clutched her tiny winnings +with precisely the same greediness shown by the Monte Carlo female +gamblers. Or the hour brought a stroll with the French danseuse and her +poodle, and a conversation about the mere trivialities of life, which a +year or two, or even a few months ago, Bernardine would have condemned +as beneath contempt, but, which were now taking their rightful place in +her new standard of importances. For some natures learn with greater +difficulty and after greater delay than others, that the real +importances of our existence are the nothingnesses of every-day life, +the nothingnesses which the philosopher in his study, reasoning about +and analysing human character, is apt to overlook; but which, +nevertheless, make him and every one else more of a human reality and +less of an abstraction. And Bernardine, hitherto occupied with so-called +intellectual pursuits, with problems of the study, of no value to the +great world outside the study, or with social problems of the great +world, great movements, and great questions, was now just beginning to +appreciate the value of the little incidents of that same great world. +Or the hour brought its own thoughts, and Bernardine found herself +constantly thinking of the Disagreeable Man: always in sorrow and always +with sympathy, and sometimes with tenderness. + +When he told her about the one sacrifice, she could have wished to wrap +him round with love and tenderness. If he could only have known it, he +had never been so near love as then. She had suffered so much herself, +and, with increasing weaknesses, had so wished to put off the burden of +the flesh, that her whole heart went out to him. + +Would he get his freedom, she wondered, and would he use it? Sometimes +when she was with him, she would look up to see whether she could read +the answer in his face; but she never saw any variation of expression +there, nothing to give her even a suggestion. But this she noticed: that +there was a marked variation in his manner, and that when he had been +rough in bearing, or bitter in speech, he made silent amends at the +earliest opportunity by being less rough and less bitter. She felt this +was no small concession on the part of the Disagreeable Man. + +He was particularly disagreeable on the day when the Dutchman was buried, +and so the following day when Bernardine met him in the little English +library, she was not surprised to find him almost kindly. + +He had chosen the book which she wanted, but he gave it up to her at once +without any grumbling, though Bernardine expected him to change his mind +before they left the library. + +"Well," he said, as they walked along together, "and have you recovered +from the death of the Dutchman?" + +"Have you recovered, rather let me ask?" she said. "You were in a horrid +mood last night." + +"I was feeling wretchedly ill," he said quietly. + +That was the first time he had ever alluded to his own health. + +"Not that there is any need to make an excuse," he continued, "for I do +not recognise that there is any necessity to consult one's surroundings, +and alter the inclination of one's mind accordingly. Still, as a matter +of fact, I felt very ill!" + +"And to-day?" she asked. + +"To-day I am myself again," he answered quickly: "that usual normal self +of mine, whatever that may mean. I slept well, and I dreamed of you. +I can't say that I had been thinking of you, because I had not. But I +dreamed that we were children together, and playmates. Now that was very +odd: because I was a lonely child, and never had any playmates." + +"And I was lonely too," said Bernardine. + +"Every one is lonely," he said, "but every one does not know it." + +"But now and again the knowledge comes like a revelation," she said, +"and we realise that we stand practically alone, out of any one's reach +for help or comfort. When you come to think of it, too, how little able +we are to explain ourselves. When you have wanted to say something which +was burning within you, have you not noticed on the face of the listener +that unmistakable look of non-comprehension, which throws you back on +yourself? That is one of the moments when the soul knows its own +loneliness!" + +Robert Allitsen looked up at her. + +"You little thing," he said, "you put things neatly sometimes. You have +felt, haven't you?" + +"I suppose so," she said. "But that is true of most people." + +"I beg your pardon," he answered, "most people neither think nor feel: +unless they think they have an ache, and then they feel it!" + +"I believe," said Bernardine, "that there is more thinking and feeling +than one generally supposes." + +"Well, I can't be bothered with that now," he said. "And you interrupted +me about my dream. That is an annoying habit you have." + +"Go on," she said. "I apologize!" + +"I dreamed we were children together, and playmates," he continued. "We +were not at all happy together, but still we were playmates. There was +nothing we did not quarrel about. You were disagreeable, and I was +spiteful. Our greatest dispute was over a Christmas-tree. And that was +odd, too, for I have never seen a Christmas-tree." + +"Well?" she said, for he had paused. "What a long time you take to tell +story." + +"You were not called Bernardine," he said. "You were called by some +ordinary sensible name. I don't remember what. But you were very +disagreeable. That I remember well. At last you disappeared, and I went +about looking for you. 'If I can find something to cause a quarrel,' +I said to myself, 'she will come back.' So I went and smashed your +doll's head. But you did not come back. Then I set on fire your doll's +house. But even that did not bring you back. Nothing brought you back. +That was my dream. I hope you are not offended. Not that it makes any +difference if you are." + +Bernardine laughed. + +"I am sorry that I should have been such an unpleasant playmate," she +said. "It was a good thing I did disappear." + +"Perhaps it was," he said. "There would have been a terrible scene about +that doll's head. An odd thing for me to dream about Christmas-trees and +dolls and playmates: especially when I went to sleep thinking about my +new camera." + +"You have a new camera?" she asked. + +"Yes," he answered, "and a beauty, too. Would you like to see it?" + +She expressed a wish to see it, and when they reached the Kurhaus, she +went with him up to his beautiful room, where he spent his time in the +company of his microscope and his chemical bottles and his photographic +possessions. + +"If you sit down and look at those photographs, I will make you some +tea," he said. "There is the camera, but please not to touch it until I +am ready to show it myself." + +She watched him preparing the tea; he did everything so daintily, this +Disagreeable Man. He put a handkerchief on the table, to serve for an +afternoon tea-cloth, and a tiny vase of violets formed the centre-piece. +He had no cups, but he polished up two tumblers, and no housemaid could +have been more particular, about their glossiness. Then he boiled the +water and made the tea. Once she offered to help him; but he shook his +head. + +"Kindly not to interfere." he said grimly. "No one can make tea better +than I can." + +After tea, they began the inspection of the new camera, and Robert +Allitsen showed her all the newest improvements. He did not seem to +think much of her intelligence, for he explained everything as though +he were talking to a child, until Bernardine rather lost patience. + +"You need not enter into such elaborate explanations," she suggested. +"I have a small amount of intelligence, though you do not seem to +detect it." + +He looked at her as one might look at an impatient child. + +"Kindly not to interrupt me," he replied mildly. "How very impatient you +are! And how restless! What must you have been like before you fell ill?" + +But he took the hint all the same, and shortened his explanations, and +as Bernardine was genuinely interested, he was well satisfied. From time +to time he looked at his old camera and at his companion, and from the +expression of unease on his face, it was evident that some contest was +going on in his mind. Twice he stood near his old camera, and turned +round to Bernardine intending to make some remark. Then he chanced his +mind, and walked abruptly to the other end of the room as though to seek +advice from his chemical bottles. Bernardine meanwhile had risen from +her chair, and was looking out of the window. + +"You have a lovely view," she said. "It must be nice to look at that +when you are tired of dissecting cheese-mites. All the same, I think +the white scenery gives one a great sense of sadness and loneliness." + +"Why do you speak always of loneliness?" he asked. + +"I have been thinking a good deal about it," she said. "When I was +strong and vigorous, the idea of loneliness never entered my mind. Now I +see how lonely most people are. If I believed in God as a Personal God, +I should be inclined to think that loneliness were part of his scheme: +so that the soul of man might turn to him and him alone." + +The Disagreeable Man was standing by his camera again: his decision was +made. + +"Don't think about those questions," he said kindly. "Don't worry and +fret too much about the philosophy of life. Leave philosophy alone, and +take to photography instead. Here, I will lend you my old camera." + +"Do you mean that?" she asked, glancing at him in astonishment. + +"Of course I mean it," he said. + +He looked remarkably pleased with himself, and Bernardine could not +help smiling. + +He looked just as a child looks when he has given up a toy to another +child, and is conscious that he has behaved himself rather well. + +"I am very much obliged to you," she said frankly. "I have had a great +wish to learn photography." + +"I might have lent my camera to you before, mightn't I?" he said +thoughtfully. + +"No," she answered. "There was not any reason." + +"No," he said, with a kind of relief, "there was not any reason. That +is quite true!" + +"When will you give me my first lesson?" she asked. "Perhaps, though, +you would like to wait a few days, in case you change your mind." + +"It takes me some time to make up my mind," he replied, "but I do not +change it. So I will give you your first lesson to-morrow. Only you +must not be impatient. You must consent to be taught; you cannot +possibly know everything!" + +They fixed a time for the morrow, and Bernardine went off with the +camera; and meeting Marie on the staircase, confided to her the piece +of good fortune which had befallen her. + +"See what Herr Allitsen has lent me, Marie!" she said. + +Marie raised her hands in astonishment. + +"Who would have thought such a thing of Herr Allitsen?" said Marie. +"Why, he does not like lending me a match." + +Bernardine laughed and passed on to her room. + +And the Disagreeable Man meanwhile was cutting a new scientific book +which had just come from England. He spent a good deal of money on +himself. He was soon absorbed in this book, and much interested in the +diagrams. + +Suddenly he looked up to the corner where the old camera had stood, +before Bernardine took it away in triumph. + +"I hope she won't hurt that camera," he said a little uneasily. +"I am half sorry that" . . . + +Then a kinder mood took possession of him. + +"Well, at least it will keep her from fussing and fretting and thinking. +Still, I hope she won't hurt it." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +A DOMESTIC SCENE. + + +ONE afternoon when Mrs. Reffold came to say good-bye to her husband +before going out for the usual sledge-drive, he surprised her by his +unwonted manner. + +"Take your cloak off," he said sharply. "You cannot go for your drive +this afternoon. You don't often give up your time to me; you must do so +to-day." + +She was so astonished, that she at once laid aside her cloak and hat, +and touched the bell. + +"Why are you ringing?" Mr. Reffold asked testily. + +"To send a message of excuse," she answered, with provoking cheerfulness. + +She scribbled something on a card, and gave it to the servant who +answered the bell. + +"Now," she said, with great sweetness of manner. And she sat down beside +him, drew out her fancy-work, and worked away contentedly. She would +have made a charming study of a devoted wife soothing a much-loved +husband in his hours of sickness and weariness. + +"Do you mind giving up your drive?" he asked. + +"Not in the least," she replied. "I am rather tired of sledging." + +"You soon get tired of things, Winifred," he said. + +"Yes, I do," was the answer. "I am so easily bored. I am quite tired of +this place." + +"You will have to stay here a little longer," he said, "and then you +will be free to go where you choose. I wish I could die quicker for you, +Winifred." + +Mrs. Reffold looked up from her embroidery. + +"You will get better soon," she said. "You are better." + +"Yes, you've helped a good deal to make me better," he said bitterly. +"You have been a most unselfish person haven't you? You have given me +every care and attention, haven't you?" + +"You seem to me in a very strange mood to-day," she said, looking +puzzled. "I don't understand you." + +Mr. Reffold laughed. + +"Poor Winifred," he said. "If it is ever your lot to fall ill and be +neglected, perhaps then you will think of me." + +"Neglected?" she said, in some surprise. "What do you mean? I thought +you had everything you wanted. The nurse brought excellent testimonials. +I was careful in the choice of her. You have never complained before." + +He turned wearily on his side, and made no answer. And for some time +there was silence between them. + +Then he watched her as she bent over her embroidery. + +"You are very beautiful, Winifred," he said quietly, "but you are a +selfish woman. Has it ever struck you that you are selfish?" + +Mrs. Reffold gave no reply, but she made a resolution to write to her +particular friend at Cannes and confide to her how very trying her +husband had become. + +"I suppose it is part of his illness," she thought meekly. "But it is +hard to have to bear it." + +And Mrs. Reffold pitied herself profoundly. She stitched sincere pity +for herself into that piece of embroidery. + +"I remember you telling me," continued Mr. Reffold, "that sick people +repelled you. That was when I was strong and vigorous. But since I have +been ill, I have often recalled your words. Poor Winifred! You did not +think then that you would have an invalid husband on your hands. Well, +you were not intended for sick-room nursing, and you have not tried to +be what you were not intended for. Perhaps you were right, after all." + +"I don't know why you should be so unkind to-day," Mrs. Reffold said, +with pathetic patience. "I can't understand you. You have never spoken +like this before." + +"No," he said; "but I have thought like this before. All the hours you +have left me lonely, I have been thinking like this, with my heart full +of bitterness against you, until that little girl, that Little Brick +came along." + +After that, it was some time before he spoke. He was thinking of his +Little Brick, and of all the pleasant hours he had spent with her, and +of the kind, wise words she had spoken to him, an ignorant fellow. She +was something like a companion. + +So he went on thinking, and Mrs. Reffold went on embroidering. She was +now feeling herself to be almost a heroine. It is a very easy matter to +make oneself into a heroine or a martyr. Selfish, neglectful? What did +he mean? Oh, it was just part of his illness. She must go on bearing her +burden as she had borne it these many months. Her rightful position was +in a London ball-room. Instead of which, she had to be shut up in an +Alpine village: a hard lot. It was little enough pleasure she could get, +and apparently her husband grudged her that. His manner to her this +afternoon was not such as to encourage her to stay in from her drive on +another occasion. To-morrow she would go sledging. + +That flash of light which reveals ourselves to ourselves had not yet +come to Mrs. Reffold. + +She looked at her husband, and thought from his restfulness that he had +gone to sleep, and she was just beginning to write to that particular +friend at Cannes, to tell her what a trial she was undergoing, when +Mr. Reffold called her to his side. + +"Winifred," he said gently, and there was tenderness in his voice, and +love written on his face, "Winifred, I am sorry if I have been sharp to +you. Little Brick says we mustn't come down like sledge-hammers on each +other; and that is what I have been doing this afternoon. Perhaps I have +been hard: I am such an illness to myself, that I must be an illness to +others too. And you weren't meant for this sort of thing--were you? You +are a bright beautiful creature, and I am an unfortunate dog not to have +been able to make you happier. I know I am irritable. I can't help +myself, indeed I can't." + +This great long fellow was so yearning for love and sympathy. + +What would it not have been to him if she had gathered him into her +arms, and soothed all his irritability and suffering with her love? + +But she pressed his hand, and kissed him lightly on the cheek, and told +him that he had been a little sharp, but that she quite understood, and +that she was not hurt. Her charm of manner gave him some satisfaction; +and when Bernardine came in a few minutes later, she found Mr. Reffold +looking happier and more contented than she had ever seen him. +Mrs. Reffold, who was relieved at the interruption, received Bernardine +warmly, though there was a certain amount of shyness which she had never +been able to conquer in Bernardine's presence. There was something in +the younger woman which quelled Mrs. Reffold: it may have been some +mental quality, or it may have been her boots! + +"Little Brick," said Mr. Reffold, "isn't it nice to have Winifred here? +And I have been so disagreeable and snappish." + +"Oh, we won't say anything about that now," said Mrs. Reffold, smiling +sweetly. + +"But I've said I am sorry," he continued. "And one can't do more." + +"No," said Bernardine, who was amused at the notion of Mr. Reffold +apologizing to Mrs. Reffold, and of Mrs. Reffold posing as the gracious +forgiver, "one can't do more." But she could not control her feelings, +and she laughed. + +"You seem rather merry this afternoon," Mr. Reffold said, in a +reproachful tone of voice. + +"Yes," she said. And she laughed again. Mrs. Reffold's forgiving +graciousness had altogether upset her gravity. + +"You might at least tell us the joke," Mrs. Reffold said. Bernardine +looked at her hopelessly, and laughed again. + +"I have been developing photographs all the afternoon," she said, "and +I suppose the closeness of the air and the badness of my negatives have +been too much for me. Anyway, I know I must seem very rude." + +She recovered herself after that, and tried hard not to think of +Mrs. Reffold as the dispenser of forgiveness, although it was some time +before she could look at her hostess without wishing to laugh. The +corners of her mouth twitched, and her brown eyes twinkled mischievously, +and she spoke very rapidly, making fun of her first attempts at +photography, and criticising herself so comically, that both Mr. and +Mrs. Reffold were much amused. + +All the same, Bernardine was relieved when Mrs. Reffold went to fetch +some silks, and left her with Mr. Reffold. + +"I am very happy this afternoon, Little Brick," he said to her. "My +wife has been sitting with me. But instead of enjoying the pleasure as +I ought to have done, I began to find fault with her. I don't know how +long I should not have gone on grumbling, but that I suddenly +recollected what you taught me: that we were not to come down like +sledge-hammers on each other's failings. When I remembered that, it was +quite easy to forgive all the neglect and thoughtlessness. Since you +have talked to me, Little Brick, everything has become easier to me!" + +"It is something in your own mind which has worked this," she said; +"your own kind, generous mind, and you put it down to my words!" + +But he shook his head. + +"If I knew of any poor unfortunate devil that wanted to be eased and +comforted," he said, "I should tell him about you, Little Brick. You +have been very good to me. You may be clever, but you have never worried +my stupid brain with too much scholarship. I'm just an ignorant chap, +and you've never let me feel it." + +He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. + +"I say," he continued, "tell my wife it made me happy to have her with +me this afternoon; then perhaps she will stay in another time. I should +like her to know. And she was sweet in her manner, wasn't she? And, by +Jove, she is beautiful! I am glad you have seen her here to-day. It must +be dull for her with an invalid like me. And I know I am irritable. Go +and tell her that she made me happy--will you?" + +The little bit of happiness at which the poor fellow snatched, seemed +to make him more pathetic than before. Bernardine promised to tell his +wife, and went off to find her, making as an excuse a book which +Mrs. Reffold had offered to lend her. Mrs. Reffold was in her bedroom. +She asked. Bernardine to sit down whilst she searched for the book. +She had a very gracious manner when she chose. + +"You are looking much better, Miss Holme," she said kindly. "I cannot +help noticing your face. It looks younger and brighter. The bracing air +has done you good." + +"Yes, I am better," Bernardine said, rather astonished that Mrs. Reffold +should have noticed her at all. "Mr. Allitsen informs me that I shall +live, but never be strong. He settles every question of that sort to his +own satisfaction, but not always to the satisfaction of other people!" + +"He is a curious person," Mrs. Reffold said smiling; "though I must say +he is not quite as gruff as he used to be. You seem to be good friends +with him." + +She would have liked to say more on this subject, but experience had +taught her that Bernardine was not to be trifled with. + +"I don't know about being good friends," Bernardine said, "but I have a +great sympathy for him. I know myself what it is to be cut off from +work and active life. I have been through a misery. But mine is nothing +to his." + +She rose to go, but Mrs. Reffold detained her. + +"Don't go yet," she said. "It is pleasant to have you." + +She was leaning back in an arm-chair playing with the fringe of an +antimacassar. + +"Oh, how tired I am of this horrid place!" she said suddenly. "And I +have had a most wearying afternoon. Mr. Reffold seems to be more +irritable every day. It is very hard that I should have to bear it." + +Bernardine listened to her in astonishment. + +"Yes," she added, "I am quite worn out. He never used to be so +irritable. It is all very tiresome. It is quite telling on my health." + +She looked the picture of health. + +Bernardine gasped; and Mrs. Reffold continued: + +"His grumbling this afternoon has been incessant; so much so that he +himself was ashamed, and asked me to forgive him. You heard him, didn't +you?" + +"Yes, I heard him," Bernardine said. + +"And of course I forgave him at once," Mrs. Reffold said piously. +"Naturally one would do that, but the vexation remains all the same." + +"Can these things be?" thought Bernardine to herself. + +"He spoke in a most ridiculous way," she went on: "it certainly is not +encouraging for me to spend another afternoon with him. I shall go +sledging to-morrow." + +"You generally do go sledging, don't you?" Bernardine asked mildly. + +Mrs. Reffold looked at her suspiciously. She was never quite sure that +Bernardine was not making fun of her. + +"It is little enough pleasure I do have," she added, as though in self- +defence. "And he seems to grudge me that too." + +"I don't think he would grudge you anything," Bernardine said, with +some warmth. "He loves you too much for that. You don't know how much +pleasure you give him when you spare him a little of your time. He told +me how happy you made him this afternoon. You could see for yourself +that he was happy. Mrs. Reffold, make him happy whilst you still have +him. Don't you understand that he is passing away from you--don't you +understand, or is it that you won't? We all see it, all except you!" + +She stopped suddenly, surprised at her boldness. + +Mrs. Reffold was still leaning back in the arm-chair, her hands clasped +together above her beautiful head. Her face was pale. She did not speak. +Bernardine waited. The silence was unbroken save by the merry cries of +some children tobogganing in the Kurhaus garden. The stillness grew +oppressive, and Bernardine rose. She knew from the effort which those +few words had cost her, how far removed she was from her old former self. + +"Good-bye, Mrs. Reffold," she said nervously. + +"Good-bye, Miss Holme," was the only answer. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS + + +THE Doctors in Petershof always said that the caretakers of the invalids +were a much greater anxiety than the invalids themselves. The invalids +would either get better or die: one of two things probably. At any rate, +you knew where you were with them. But not so with the caretakers: there +was nothing they were not capable of doing--except taking reasonable +care of their invalids! They either fussed about too much, or else they +did not fuss about at all. They all began by doing the right thing: they +all ended by doing the wrong. The fussy ones had fits of apathy, when +the poor irritable patients seemed to get a little better; the negligent +ones had paroxysms of attentiveness, when their invalids, accustomed to +loneliness and neglect, seemed to become rather worse by being worried. + +To remonstrate with the caretakers would have been folly: for they were +well satisfied with their own methods. + +To contrive their departure would have been an impossibility: for they +were firmly convinced that their presence was necessary to the welfare +of their charges. And then, too, judging from the way in which they +managed to amuse themselves, they liked being in Petershof, though they +never owned that to the invalids. On the contrary, it was the custom for +the caretakers to depreciate the place, and to deplore the necessity +which obliged them to continue there month after month. They were fond, +too, of talking about the sacrifices which they made, and the pleasures +which they willingly gave up in order to stay with their invalids. They +said this in the presence of their invalids. And if the latter had told +them by all means to pack up and go back to the pleasures which they +had renounced, they would have been astonished at the ingratitude which +could suggest the idea. + +They were amusing characters, these caretakers. They were so thoroughly +unconscious of their own deficiencies. They might neglect their own +invalids, but they would look after other people's invalids, and play +the nurse most soothingly and prettily where there was no call and no +occasion. Then they would come and relate to their neglected dear ones +what they had been doing for others: and the dear ones would smile +quietly, and watch the buttons being stitched on for strangers, and the +cornflour which they could not get nicely made for themselves, being +carefully prepared for other people's neglected dear ones. + +Some of the dear ones were rather bitter. But there were many of a +higher order of intelligence, who seemed to realize that they had no +right to be ill, and that being ill, and therefore a burden on their +friends, they must make the best of everything, and be grateful for +what was given them, and patient when anything was withheld. Others of +a still higher order of understanding, attributed the eccentricities of +the caretakers to one cause alone: the Petershof air. They know it had +the invariable effect of getting into the head, and upsetting the +balance of those who drank deep of it. Therefore no one was to blame, +and no one need be bitter. But these were the philosophers of the +colony: a select and dainty few in any colony. But there were several +rebels amongst the invalids, and they found consolation in confiding to +each other their separate grievances. They generally held their +conferences in the rooms known as the newspaper-rooms, where they were +not likely to be interrupted by any caretakers who might have stayed at +home because they were tired out. + +To-day there were only a few rebels gathered together, but they were +more than usually excited, because the Doctors had told several of them +that their respective caretakers must be sent home. + +"What must I do?" said little Mdlle. Gerardy, wringing her hands. "The +Doctor says that I must tell my sister to go home: that she only worries +me, and makes me worse. He calls her a 'whirlwind.' If I won't tell her, +then he will tell her, and we shall have some more scenes. Mon Dieu! and +I am so tired of them. They terrify me. I would suffer anything rather +than have a fresh scene. And I can't get her to do anything for me. +She has no time for me. And, yet she thinks she takes the greatest +possible care of me, and devotes the whole day to me. Why, sometimes I +never see her for hours together." + +"Well, at least she does not quarrel with every one, as my mother does," +said a Polish gentleman, M. Lichinsky. "Nearly every day she has a +quarrel with some one or other; and then she comes to me and says she +has been insulted. And others come to me mad with rage, and complain +that they have been insulted by her. As though I were to blame! I tell +them that now. I tell them that my mother's quarrels are not my quarrels. +But one longs for peace. And the Doctor says I must have it, and that +my mother must go home at once. If I tell her that, she will have a +tremendous quarrel with the Doctor. As it is, he will scarcely speak to +her. So you see, Mademoiselle Gerardy, that I, too, am in a bad plight. +What am I to do?" + +Then a young American spoke. He had been getting gradually worse since +he came to Petershof, but his brother, a bright sturdy young fellow, +seemed quite unconscious of the seriousness of his condition. + +"And what am I to do?" he asked pathetically. "My brother does not even +think I am ill. He says I am to rouse myself and come skating and +tobogganing with him. Then I tell him that the Doctor says I must lie +quietly in the sun. I have no one to take care of me, so I try to take +a little care of myself, and then I am laughed at. It is bad enough to +be ill; but it is worse when those who might help you a little, won't +even believe in your illness. I wrote home once and told them; but they +go by what he says; and they, too, tell me to rouse myself." + +His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were leaden. There was no power in his +voice, no vigour in his frame. He was just slipping quickly down the +hill for want of proper care and understanding. + +"I don't know whether I am much better off than you," said an English +lady, Mrs. Bridgetower. "I certainly have a trained nurse to look after +me, but she is altogether too much for me, and she does just as she +pleases. She is always ailing, or else pretends to be; and she is always +depressed. She grumbles from eight in the morning till nine at night. +I have heard that she is cheerful with other people, but she never gives +me the benefit of her brightness. Poor thing! She does feel the cold +very much, but it is not very cheering to see her crouching near the +stove, with her arms almost clasping it! When she is not talking of her +own looks, all she says is: 'Oh, if I had only not come to Petershof!' +or, 'Why did I ever leave that hospital in Manchester?' or, 'The cold +is eating into the very marrow of my bones.' At first she used to read +to me; but it was such a dismal performance that I could not bear to +hear her. Why don't I send her home? Well, my husband will not hear of +me being alone, and he thinks I might do worse than keep Nurse Frances. +And perhaps I might." + +"I would give a good deal to have a sister like pretty Fräulein Müller +has," said little Fräulein Oberhof. "She came to look after me the other +day when I was alone. She has the kindest way about her. But when my +sister came in, she was not pleased to find Fräulein Sophie Müller with +me. She does not do anything for me herself, and she does not like any +one else to do anything either. Still, she is very good to other people. +She comes up from the theatre sometimes at half-past nine--that is the +hour when I am just sleepy--and she stamps about the room, and makes +cornflour for the old Polish lady. Then off she goes, taking with her +the cornflour together with my sleep. Once I complained, but she said I +was irritable. You can't think how teasing it is to hear the noise of +the spoon stirring the cornflour just when you are feeling drowsy. You +say to yourself, 'Will that cornflour never be made? It seems to take +centuries.'" + +"One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself," said +M. Lichinsky. "But at least, Fräulein, your sister does not quarrel +with every one. You must be grateful for that mercy!" + +Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room. +She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She +spoke with a whirlwind of Polish words. It is sometimes difficult to +know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there +was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose +from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his +confederates, and shrugged his shoulders. + +"Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING. + + +"YOU may have talent for other things," Robert Allitsen said one day to +Bernardine, "but you certainly have no talent for photography. You have +not made the slightest progress." + +"I don't at all agree with you," Bernardine answered rather peevishly. +"I think I am getting on very well." + +"You are no judge," he said. "To begin with, you cannot focus properly. +You have a crooked eye. I have told you that several times!" + +"You certainly have," she put in. "You don't let me forget that." + +"Your photograph of that horrid little danseuse whom you like so much," +he said, "is simply abominable. She looks like a fury. Well, she may be +one for all I know, but in real life she has not the appearance of one." + +"I think that is the best photograph I have done," Bernardine said, +highly indignant. She could tolerate his uppishness about subjects of +which she knew far more than he did; but his masterfulness about a +subject of which she really knew nothing was more than she could bear +with patience. He had not the tact to see that she was irritated. + +"I don't know about it being the best," he said; "unless it is the best +specimen of your inexperience. Looked at from that point of view, it +does stand first!" + +She flushed crimson with temper. + +"Nothing is easier than to make fun of others," she said fiercely. "It +is the resource of the ignorant." + +Then, after the fashion of angry women, having said her say, she stalked +away. If there had been a door to bang, she would certainly have banged +it. However, she did what she could under the circumstances: she pushed +a curtain roughly aside, and passed into the concert-room, where every +night of the season's six months, a scratchy string orchestra entertained +the Kurhaus guests. She left the Disagreeable Man standing in the passage. + +"Dear me," he said thoughtfully. And he stroked his chin. Then he trudged +slowly up to his room. + +"Dear me," he said once more. + +Arrived in his bedroom, he began to read. But after a few minutes he +shut his book, took the lamp to the looking-glass and brushed his hair. +Then he put on a black coat and a white silk tie. There was a speck of +dust on the coat. He carefully removed that, and then extinguished the +lamp. + +On his way downstairs he met Marie, who gazed at him in astonishment. +It was quite unusual for him to be seen again when he had once come up +from _table-d'hôte_. She noticed the black coat and the white silk tie +too, and reported on these eccentricities to her colleague Anna. + +The Disagreeable Man meanwhile had reached the Concert Hall. He glanced +around, and saw where Bernardine was sitting, and then chose a place in +the opposite direction, quite by himself. He looked somewhat like a dog +who has been well beaten. Now and again he looked up to see whether she +still kept her seat. The bad music was a great irritation to him. But he +stayed on heroically. There was no reason why he should stay. Gradually, +too, the audience began to thin. Still he lingered, always looking like +a dog in punishment. + +At last Bernardine rose, and the Disagreeable Man rose too. He followed +her humbly to the door. She turned and saw him. + +"I am sorry I put you in a bad temper," he said. "It was stupid of me." + +"I am sorry I got into a bad temper," she answered, laughing. "It was +stupid of me." + +"I think I have said enough to apologize," he said. "It is a process I +dislike very much." + +And with that he wished her good-night and went to his room. + +But that was not the end of the matter, for the next day when he was +taking his breakfast with her, he of his own accord returned to the +subject. + +"It was partly your own fault that I vexed you last night," he said. +"You have never before been touchy, and so I have become accustomed to +saying what I choose. And it is not in my nature to be flattering." + +"That is a very truthful statement of yours," she said, as she poured +out her coffee. "But I own I was touchy. And so I shall be again if you +make such cutting remarks about my photographs!" + +"You have a crooked eye," he said grimly. "Look there, for instance! +You have poured your coffee outside the cup. Of course you can do as +you like, but the usual custom is to pour it inside the cup." + +They both laughed, and the good understanding between them was cemented +again. + +"You are certainly getting better," he said suddenly. "I should not be +surprised if you were able to write a book after all. Not that a new +book is wanted. There are too many books as it is; and not enough people +to dust them. Still, it is not probable that you would be considerate +enough to remember that. You will write your book." + +Bernardine shook her head. + +"I don't seem to care now," she said. "I think I could now be content +with a quieter and more useful part." + +"You will write your book," he continued. "Now listen to me. Whatever +else you may do, don't make your characters hold long discussions with +each other. In real life, people do not talk four pages at a time +without stopping. Also, if you bring together two clever men, don't make +them talk cleverly. Clever people do not. It is only the stupid who +think they must talk cleverly all the time. And don't detain your reader +too long: if you must have a sunset, let it be a short one. I could give +you many more hints which would be useful to you." + +"But why not use your own hints for yourself?" she suggested. + +"That would be selfish of me," he said solemnly. "I wish you to profit +by them." + +"You are learning to be unselfish at a very rapid rate," Bernardine said. + +At that moment Mrs. Reffold came into the breakfast-room, and, seeing +Bernardine, gave her a stiff bow. + +"I thought you and Mrs. Reffold were such friends," Robert Allitsen said. + +Bernardine then told him of her last interview with Mrs. Reffold. + +"Well, if you feel uncomfortable, it is as it should be," he said. "I +don't see what business you had to point out to Mrs. Reffold her duty. +I dare say she knows it quite well though she may not choose to do it. +I am sure I should resent it, if any one pointed out my duty to me. +Every one knows his own duty. And it is his own affair whether or not +he does it." + +"I wonder if you are right," Bernardine said. "I never meant to presume; +but her indifference had exasperated me." + +"Why should you be exasperated about other people's affairs?" he said. +"And why interfere at all?" + +"Being interested is not the same as being interfering," she replied +quickly. + +"It is difficult to be the one without being the other," he said. "It +requires a genius. There is a genius for being sympathetic as well as +a genius for being good. And geniuses are few." + +"But I knew one," Bernardine said. "There was a friend to whom in the +first days of my trouble I turned for sympathy. When others only +irritated, she could soothe. She had only to come into my room, and +all was well with me." + +There were tears in Bernardine's eyes as she spoke. + +"Well," said the Disagreeable Man kindly, "and where is your genius now?" + +"She went away, she and hers," Bernardine said "And that was the end of +that chapter!" + +"Poor little child," he said, half to himself. "Don't I too know +something about the ending of such a chapter?" + +But Bernardine did not hear him; she was thinking of her friend. She was +thinking, as we all think, that those to whom in our suffering we turn +for sympathy, become hallowed beings. Saints they may not be; but for +want of a better name, saints they are to us, gracious and lovely +presences. The great time Eternity, the great space Death, could not rob +them of their saintship; for they were canonized by our bitterest tears. + +She was roused from her reverie by the Disagreeable Man, who got up, and +pushed his chair noisily under the table. + +"Will you come and help me to develop some photographs?" he asked +cheerily. "You do not need to have a straight eye for that!" + +Then as they went along together, he said: + +"When we come to think about it seriously, it is rather absurd for us to +expect to have uninterrupted stretches of happiness. Happiness falls to +our share in separate detached bits; and those of us who are wise, +content ourselves with these broken fragments." + +"But who is wise?" Bernardine asked. "Why, we all expect to be happy. +No one told us that we were to be happy. Still, though no one told us, +it is the true instinct of human nature." + +"It would be interesting to know at what particular period of evolution +into our present glorious types we felt that instinct for the first +time," he said. "The sunshine must have had something to do with it. +You see how a dog throws itself down in the sunshine; the most wretched +cur heaves a sigh of content then; the sulkiest cat begins to purr." + +They were standing outside the room set apart for the photograph-maniacs +of the Kurhaus. + +"I cannot go into that horrid little hole," Bernardine said. "And +besides, I have promised to play chess with the Swedish professor. +And after that I am going to photograph Marie. I promised Wärli I would." + +The Disagreeable Man smiled grimly. + +"I hope he will be able to recognize her!" he said. Then, feeling that +he was on dangerous ground, he added quickly: + +"If you want any more plates, I can oblige you." + +On her way to her room she stopped to talk to pretty Fräulein Müller, +who was in high spirits, having had an excellent report from the Doctor. +Fräulein Müller always insisted on talking English with Bernardine; and +as her knowledge of it was limited, a certain amount of imagination was +necessary to enable her to be understood. + +"Ah, Miss Holme," she said, "I have deceived an exquisite report from +the Doctor." + +"You are looking ever so well," Bernardine said. "And the love-making +with the Spanish gentleman goes on well, too?" + +"Ach!" was the merry answer. "That is your inventory! I am quite +indolent to him!" + +At that moment the Spanish gentleman came out of the Kurhaus flower- +shop, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. + +"Mademoiselle," he said, handing them to Fräulein Müller, and at the +same time putting his hand to his heart. He had not noticed Bernardine +at first, and when he saw her, he became somewhat confused. She smiled +at them both, and escaped into the flower-shop, which was situated in +one of the covered passages connecting the mother-building with the +dependencies. Herr Schmidt, the gardener, was making a wreath. His +favourite companion, a saffron cat, was playing with the wire. Schmidt +was rather an ill-tempered man, but he liked Bernardine. + +"I have put these violets aside for you, Fräulein," he said, in his +sulky way. "I meant to have sent them to your room, but have been +interrupted in my work." + +"You spoil me with your gifts," she said. + +"You spoil my cat with the milk," he replied, looking up from his work. + +"That is a beautiful wreath you are making, Herr Schmidt," she said. +"Who has died? Any one in the Kurhaus?" + +"No, Fräulein. But I ought to keep my door locked when I make these +wreaths. People get frightened, and think they, too, are going to die. +Shall you be frightened, I wonder?" + +"No, I believe not," she answered as she took possession of her violets, +and stroked the saffron cat. "But I am glad no one has died here." + +"It is for a young, beautiful lady," he said. "She was in the Kurhaus +two years ago. I liked her. So I am taking extra pains. She did not care +for the flowers to be wired. So I am trying my best without the wire. +But it is difficult." + +She left him to his work, and went away, thinking. All the time she had +now been in Petershof had not sufficed to make her indifferent to the +sadness of her surroundings. In vain the Disagreeable Man's preachings, +in vain her own reasonings with herself. + +These people here who suffered, and faded, and passed away, who were +they to her? + +Why should the faintest shadow steal across her soul on account of them? + +There was no reason. And still she felt for them all, she who in the old +days would have thought it waste of time to spare a moment's reflection +on anything so unimportant as the sufferings of an _individual_ human +being. + +And the bridge between her former and her present self was her own +illness. + +What dull-minded sheep we must all be, how lacking in the very elements +of imagination, since we are only able to learn by personal experience +of grief and suffering, something about the suffering and grief of +others! + +Yea, how the dogs must wonder at us: those dogs who know when we are in +pain or trouble, and nestle nearer to us. + +So Bernardine reached her own door. She heard her name called, and, +turning round, saw Mrs. Reffold. There was a scared look on the +beautiful face. + +"Miss Holme," she said, "I have been sent for--I daren't go to him +alone--I want you--he is worse. I am" . . . . + +Bernardine took her hand, and the two women hurried away in silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE. + + +BERNARDINE had seen Mr. Reffold the previous day. She had sat by his +side and held his hand. He had smiled at her many times, but he only +spoke once. + +"Little Brick," he whispered--for his voice had become nothing but a +whisper. "I remember all you told me. God bless you. But what a long +time it does take to die." + +But that was yesterday. + +The lane had come to an ending at last, and Mr. Reffold lay dead. + +They bore him to the little mortuary chapel. And Bernardine stayed with +Mrs. Reffold, who seemed afraid to be alone. She clung to Bernardine's +hand. + +"No, no," she said excitedly, "you must not go! I can't bear to be +alone: you must stay with me!" + +She expressed no sorrow, no regret. She did not even speak his name. +She just sat nursing her beautiful face. + +Once or twice Bernardine tried to slip away. This waiting about was a +strain on her, and she felt that she was doing no good. + +But each time Mrs. Reffold looked up and prevented her. + +"No, no," she said. "I can't bear myself without you. I must have you +near me. Why should you leave me?" + +So Bernardine lingered. She tried to read a book which lay on the table. +She counted the lines and dots on the wall-paper. She thought about the +dead man; and about the living woman. She had pitied him; but when she +looked at the stricken face of his wife, Bernardine's whole heart rose +up in pity for her. Remorse would come, although it might not remain +long. The soul would see itself face to face for one brief moment; and +then forget its own likeness. + +But for the moment--what a weight of suffering, what a whole century of +agony! + +Bernardine grew very tender for Mrs. Reffold: she bent over the sofa, +and fondled the beautiful face. + +"Mrs. Reffold" . . . she whispered. + +That was all she said: but it was enough. + +Mrs. Reffold burst into an agony of tears. + +"Oh, Miss Holme," she sobbed, "and I was not even kind to him! And now +it is too late. How can I ever bear myself?" + +And then it was that the soul knew its own remorse. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES. + + +SHE had left him alone and neglected for whole hours when he was alive. +And now when he was dead, and it probably mattered little to him where +he was laid, it was some time before she could make up her mind to +leave him in the lonely little Petershof cemetery. + +"It will be so dreary for him there," she said to the Doctor. + +"Not so dreary as you made it for him here," thought the Doctor. + +But he did not say that: he just urged her quietly to have her husband +buried in Petershof; and she yielded. + +So they laid him to rest in the dreary cemetery. + +Bernardine went to the funeral, much against the Disagreeable Man's wish. + +"You are looking like a ghost yourself," he said to her. "Come out with +me into the country instead." + +But she shook her head. + +"Another day," she said. "And Mrs. Reffold wants me. I can't leave her +alone, for she is so miserable." + +The Disagreeable Man shrugged his shoulders, and went off by himself. + +Mrs. Reffold clung very much to Bernardine those last days before she +left Petershof. She had decided to go to Wiesbaden, where she had +relations; and she invited Bernardine to go with her: it was more than +that, she almost begged her. Bernardine refused. + +"I have been from England nearly five months," she said, "and my money +is coming to an end. I must go back and work." + +"Then come away with me as my companion," Mrs. Reffold suggested. "And +I will pay you a handsome salary." + +Bernardine could not be persuaded. + +"No," she said. "I could not earn money that way: it would not suit me. +And besides, you would not care to be a long time with me: you would +soon tire of me. You think you would like to have me with you now. But +I know how it would be: You would be sorry, and so should I. So let us +part as we are now: you going your way, and I going mine. We live in +different worlds, Mrs. Reffold. It would be as senseless for me to +venture into yours, as for you to come into mine. Do you think I am +unkind?" + +So they parted. Mrs. Reffold had spoken no word of affection to +Bernardine, but at the station, as she bent down to kiss her, she +whispered: + +"I know you will not think too hardly of me. Still, will you promise +me? And if you are ever in trouble, and I can help you, will you write +to me?" + +And Bernardine promised. + +When she got back to her room, she found a small packet on her table. +It contained Mr. Reffold's watch-chain. She had so often seen him +playing with it. There was a little piece of paper enclosed with it, +and Mr. Reffold had written on it some two months ago: "Give my watch- +chain to Little Brick, if she will sacrifice a little of her pride, and +accept the gift." Bernardine unfastened her watch from the black hair +cord, and attached it instead to Mr. Reffold's massive gold chain. + +As she sat there fiddling with it, the idea seized her that she would +be all the better for a day's outing. At first she thought she would go +alone, and then she decided to ask Robert Allitsen. She learnt from +Marie that he was in the dark room, and she hastened down. She knocked +several times before there was any answer. + +"I can't be disturbed just now," he said. "Who is it?" + +"I can't shout to you," she said. + +The Disagreeable Man opened the door of the dark room. + +"My negatives will be spoilt," he said gruffly. Then seeing Bernardine +standing there, he added: + +"Why, you look as though you wanted some brandy." + +"No," she said, smiling at his sudden change of manner. "I want fresh +air, a sledge drive, and a day's outing. Will you come?" + +He made no answer, and retired once more into the dark room. Then he +came out with his camera. + +"We will go to that inn again," he said cheerily. "I want to take the +photographs to those peasants." + +In half an hours time they were on their way. It was the same drive as +before: and since then, Bernardine had seen more of the country, and was +more accustomed to the wonderful white scenery: but still the "white +presences" awed her, and still the deep silence held her. It was the +same scene, and yet not the same either, for the season was now far +advanced, and the melting of the snows had begun. In the far distance +the whiteness seemed as before; but on the slopes near at hand, the +green was beginning to assert itself, and some of the great trees had +cast off their heavy burdens, and appeared more gloomy in their freedom +than in the days of their snow-bondage. The roads were no longer quite +so even as before; the sledge glided along when it could, and bumped +along when it must. Still, there was sufficient snow left to make the +drive possible, and even pleasant. + +The two companions were quiet. Once only the Disagreeable Man made a +remark, and then he said: + +"I am afraid my negatives will be spoilt!" + +"You said that before," Bernardine remarked. + +"Well, I say it again," he answered in his grim way. + +Then came a long pause. + +"The best part of the winter is over," he said. "We may have some more +snow; but it is more probable that we shall not. It is not enjoyable +being here during the melting time." + +"Well, in any case I should not be here much longer," she said; "and +for a simple reason, too. I have nearly come to the end of my money. +I shall have to go back and set to work again. I should not have been +able to give myself this chance, but that my uncle spared me some of +his money, to which I added my savings." + +"Are you badly off?" the Disagreeable Man asked rather timidly. + +"I have very few wants," she answered brightly. "And wealth is only a +relative word, after all." + +"It is a pity that you should go back to work so soon," he said half to +himself. "You are only just better; and it is easy to lose what one has +gained." + +"Oh, I am not likely to lose," she answered; "but I shall be careful +this time. I shall do a little teaching, and perhaps a little writing: +not much--you need not be vexed. I shall not try to pick up the other +threads yet. I shall not be political, nor educational, nor anything +else great." + +"If you call politics or education great," he said. "And heaven defend +me from political or highly educated women!" + +"You say that because you know nothing about them," she said sharply. + +"Thank you," he replied. "I have met them quite often enough!" + +"That was probably some time ago," she said rather heartlessly. "If you +have lived here so long, how can you judge of the changes which go on +in the world outside Petershof?" + +"If I have lived here so long," he repeated, in the bitterness of his +heart. + +Bernardine did not notice: she was on a subject which always excited her. + +"I don't know so much about the political women," she said, "but I do +know about the higher education people. The writers who rail against +the women of this date are really describing the women of ten years ago. +Why, the Girton girl of ten years ago seems a different creation from +the Girton girl of to-day. Yet the latter has been the steady outgrowth +of the former!" + +"And the difference between them?" asked the Disagreeable Man; "since +you pride yourself on being so well informed." + +"The Girton girl of ten years ago," said Bernardine, "was a, sombre, +spectacled person, carelessly and dowdily dressed, who gave herself up +to wisdom, and despised every one who did not know the Agamemnon by +heart. She was probably not lovable; but she deserves to be honoured +and thankfully remembered. She fought for woman's right to be well +educated, and I cannot bear to hear her slighted. The fresh-hearted +young girl who nowadays plays a good game of tennis, and takes a high +place in the Classical or Mathematical Tripos, and is book learnèd, +without being bookish, and . . . ." + +"What other virtues are left, I wonder?" he interrupted. + +"And who does not scorn to take a pride in her looks because she happens +to take a pride in her books," continued Bernardine, looking at the +Disagreeable Man, and not seeming to see him: "she is what she is by +reason of that grave and loveless woman who won the battle for her." + +Here she paused. + +"But how ridiculous for me to talk to you in this way!" she said. "It +is not likely that you would be interested in the widening out of +women's lives." + +"And pray why not?" he asked. "Have I been on the shelf too long?" + +"I think you would not have been interested even if you had never been +on the shelf," she said frankly. "You are not the type of man to be +generous to woman." + +"May I ask one little question of you, which shall conclude this +subject," he said, "since here we are already at the Gasthaus: to which +type of learnèd woman do you lay claim to belong?" + +Bernardine laughed. + +"That I leave to your own powers of discrimination," she said, and then +added, "if you have any." + +And that was the end of the matter, for the word spread about that Herr +Allitsen had arrived, and every one turned out to give the two guests +greeting. Frau Steinhart smothered Bernardine with motherly tenderness, +and whispered in her ear: + +"You are betrothed now, liebes Fräulein? Ach, I am sure of it." + +But Bernardine smiled and shook her head, and went to greet the others +who crowded round them; and at last poor Catharina drew near too, +holding Bernardine's hand lovingly within her own. Then Hans, Liza's +lover, came upon the scene, and Liza told the Disagreeable Man that she +and Hans were to be married in a month's time. And the Disagreeable Man, +much to Bernardine's amazement, drew from his pocket a small parcel, +which he confided to Liza's care. Every one pressed round her while she +opened it, and found what she had so often wished for, a silver watch +and chain. + +"Ach," she cried, "how heavenly! How all the girls here will envy me! +How angry my dear friend Susanna will be!" + +Then there were the photographs to be examined. + +Liza looked with stubborn disapproval on the pictures of herself in her +working-dress. But she did not conceal her admiration of the portraits +which showed her to the world in her best finery. + +"Ach," she cried, "this is something like a photograph!" + +The Disagreeable Man grunted, but behaved after the fashion of a hero, +claiming, however, a little silent sympathy from Bernardine. + +It was a pleasant, homely scene: and Bernardine, who, felt quite at her +ease amongst these people, chatted away with them as though she had +known them all her life. + +Then Frau Steinhart suddenly remembered that her guests needed some food, +and Liza was despatched to her duties as cook; though it was some time +before she could be induced to leave off looking at the photographs. + +"Take them with you, Liza," said the Disagreeable Man. "Then we shall +get our meal all the quicker!" + +She ran off laughing, and finally Bernardine found herself alone with +Catharina. + +"Liza is very happy," she said to Bernardine. "She loves, and is loved." + +"That is the greatest happiness," Bernardine said half to herself. + +"Fräulein knows?" Catharina asked eagerly. + +Bernardine looked wistfully at her companion. "No, Catharina," she said. +"I have only heard and read and seen." + +"Then _you_ cannot understand," Catharina said almost proudly. "But _I_ +understand!" + +She spoke no more after that, but took up her knitting, and watched +Bernardine playing with the kittens. She was playing with the kittens, +and she was thinking; and all the time she felt conscious that this +peasant woman, stricken in mind and body, was pitying her because that +great happiness of loving and being loved had not come into her life. +It had seemed something apart from her; she had never even wanted it. +She had wished to stand alone, like a little rock out at sea. + +And now? + +In a few minutes the Disagreeable Man and she sat down to their meal. +In spite of her excitement, Liza managed to prepare everything nicely; +though when she was making the omelette _aux fines herbes_, she had to +be kept guarded lest she might run off to have another look at the +silver watch and the photographs of herself in her finest frock! + +Then Bernardine and Robert Allitsen drank to the health of Hans and +Liza: and then came the time of reckoning. When he was paying the bill, +Frau Steinhart, having given him the change, said coaxingly: + +"Last time, you and Fräulein each paid a share: to-day you pay all. Then +perhaps you are betrothed at last, dear Herr Allitsen? Ach, how the old +Hausfrau wishes you happiness! Who deserves to be happy, if it is not +our dear Herr Allitsen?" + +"You have given me twenty centimes too much," he said quietly. "You +have your head so full of other things that you cannot reckon properly." + +But seeing that she looked troubled lest she might have offended him, +he added quickly: + +"When I am betrothed, good little old housemother, you shall be the +first to know." + +And she had to be content with that. She asked no more questions of +either of them: but she was terribly disappointed. There was something +a little comical in her disappointment; but Robert Allitsen was not +amused at it, as he had been on a former occasion. As he leaned back +in the sledge, with the same girl for his companion, he recalled his +feelings. He had been astonished and amused, and perhaps a little shy, +and a great deal relieved that she had been sensible enough to be +amused too. + +And now? + +They had been constantly together for many months: he who had never +cared before for companionship, had found himself turning more and more +to her. + +_And now he was going to lose her_. + +He looked up once or twice to make sure that she was still by his side: +she sat there so quietly. At last he spoke in his usual gruff way. + +"Have you exhausted all your eloquence in your oration about learned +women?" he asked. + +"No, I am reserving it for a better audience," she answered, trying to +be bright. But she was not bright. + +"I believe you came out to the country to day to seek for cheerfulness," +he said after a pause. "Have you found it?" + +"I do not know," she said. "It takes me some time to recover from +shocks; and Mr. Reffold's death was a sorrow to me. What do you think +about death? Have you any theories about life and death, and the bridge +between them? Could you say anything to help one?" + +"Nothing," he answered. "Who could? And by what means?" + +"Has there been no value in philosophy," she asked, "and the meditations +of learnèd men?" + +"Philosophy!" he sneered. "What has it done for us? It has taught us +some processes of the mind's working; taught us a few wonderful things +which interest the few; but the centuries have come and gone, and the +only thing which the whole human race pants to know, remains unknown: +our beloved ones, shall we meet them, and how?--the great secret of the +universe. We ask for bread, and these philosophers give us a stone. +What help could come from them: or from any one? Death is simply one of +the hard facts of life." + +"And the greatest evil," she said. + +"We weave our romances about the next world," he continued; "and any +one who has a fresh romance to relate, or an old one dressed up in new +language, will be listened to, and welcomed. That helps some people for +a little while; and when the charm of the romance is over, then they +are ready for another, perhaps more fantastic than the last. But the +plot is always the same: our beloved ones--shall we meet them, and how? +Isn't it pitiful? Why cannot we be more impersonal? These puny, petty +minds of ours! When will they learn to expand?" + +"Why should we learn to be more impersonal?" she said. "There was a time +when I felt like that; but now I have learnt something better: that we +need not be ashamed of being human; above all, of having the best of +human instincts, love, and the passionate wish for its continuance, and +the unceasing grief at its withdrawal. There is no indignity in this; +nor any trace of weakmindedness in our restless craving to know about +the Hereafter, and the possibilities of meeting again those whom we have +lost here. It is right, and natural, and lovely that it should be the +most important question. I know that many will say that there _are_ +weightier questions: they say so, but do they think so? Do we want to +know first and foremost whether we shall do our work better elsewhere: +whether we shall be endowed with more wisdom: whether, as poor +Mr. Reffold said, we shall be glad to behave less like curs, and more +like heroes? These questions come in, but they can be put aside. The +other question can _never_ be put on one side. If that were to become +possible, it would only be so because the human heart had lost the best +part of itself, its own humanity. We shall go on building our bridge +between life and death, each one for himself. When we see that it is +not strong enough, we shall break it down and build another. We shall +watch other people building their bridges. We shall imitate, or +criticise, or condemn. But as time goes on, we shall learn not to +interfere, we shall know that one bridge is probably as good as the +other; and that the greatest value of them all has been in the building +of them. It does not matter what we build, but build we must: you, and I, +and every one." + +"I have long ceased to build my bridge," the Disagreeable Man said. + +"It is an almost unconscious process," she said. "Perhaps you are still +at work, or perhaps you are resting." + +He shrugged his shoulders, and the two comrades fell into silence again. + +They were within two miles of Petershof, when he broke the silence: +there was something wonderfully gentle in his voice. + +"You little thing," he said, "we are nearing home, and I have something +to ask you. It is easier for me to ask here in the free open country, +where the space seems to give us breathing room for our cramped lungs +and minds!" + +"Well," she said kindly; she wondered what he could have to say. + +"I am a little nervous of offending you," he continued, "and yet I trust +you. It is only this. You said you had come to the end of your money, +and that you must go home. It seems a pity when you are getting better. +I have so much more than I need. I don't offer it to you as a gift, but +I thought if you wished to stay longer, a loan from me would not be +quite impossible to you. You could repay as quickly or as slowly as was +convenient to you, and I should only be grateful and" . . . . + +He stopped suddenly. + +The tears had gathered in Bernardine's eyes her hand rested for one +moment on his arm. + +"Mr. Allitsen," she said, "you did well to trust me. But I could not +borrow money of any one, unless I was obliged. If I could of any one, +it would have been of you. It is not a month ago since I was a little +anxious about money; my remittances did not come. I thought then that +if obliged to ask for temporary help, I should come to you: so you see +if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you." + +A smile passed over the Disagreeable Man's face, one of his rare, +beautiful smiles. + +"Supposing you change your mind," he said quietly, "you will not find +that I have changed mine." + +Then a few minutes brought them back to Petershof. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +A BETROTHAL. + + +HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his +answer. It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know +exactly where he stood in her affections. She had certainly given him +little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not +indifferent to his admiration. Little signs were all very well for a +short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end: she had told +him that she was going back to her work at home. And then perhaps he +would lose her altogether. It would not be safe now for him to delay a +single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with courage. + +Wärli's brain was muddled that day. He who prided himself upon knowing +the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes +about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his +stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger +person than the little hunchback postman. + +In fact, he ceased to care how he gave out the letters: all the +envelopes seemed to have the same name on them: _Marie Truog_. Every +word which he tried to decipher turned to that; so finally he tried no +more, leaving the destination of the letter to be decided by the +impulse of the moment. At last he arrived at that quarter of the +Kurhaus where Marie held sway. He heard her singing in her pantry. +Suddenly she was summoned downstairs by an impatient bellringer, +and on her return found Wärli waiting in the passage. + +"What a goose you are!" she cried, throwing a letter at him; "you have +left the wrong letter at No. 82." + +Then some one else rang, and Marie hurried off again. She came back with +another letter in her hand, and found Wärli sitting in her pantry. + +"The wrong letter left at No. 54," she said, "and Madame in a horrid +temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Wärli! Can't you +read? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I'll sort them." + +Wärli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead. + +"I can't read to-day, Marie," he said; something has gone wrong with me. +Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every +one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you, +though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write +at the same time, to catch the same post." + +"It would be very dull if they did," said Marie, who was polishing some +water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary. + +"But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen," the little postman said. +"I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to +look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the +book itself is not a bad book." + +Marie went on polishing the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the +light to admire their unwonted cleanness. + +"I don't plead for myself," continued Wärli. "If you don't love me, that +is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will +marry me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all." + +Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Wärli. + +"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why +didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now." + +"Oh, Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering +it with kisses; "you love some one else--you are already betrothed? And +now it's too late, and you love some one else!" + +"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was +too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet +ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the +can; no, not one little drop! + +"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Wärli, snatching the can out of her +hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know +about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like +this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all +Switzerland." + +"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice; +"the truth and nothing else? Well, Wärli, if you must know . . . how I +grieve to hurt you . . . ." Wärli's heart sank, the tears came into his +eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the +torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!" + +A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract +any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp. +He discovered Wärli embracing his betrothed. + +"I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But +directly afterwards he came back. + +"The matron has just come upstairs," he said. And he hurried away. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +"SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING." + + +MANY of the guests in the foreign quarter had made a start downwards +into the plains; and the Kurhaus itself, though still well filled with +visitors, was every week losing some of its invalids. A few of the +tables looked desolate, and some were not occupied at all, the lingerers +having chosen, now that their party was broken up, to seek the refuge of +another table. So that many stragglers found their way to the English +dining-board, each bringing with him his own national bad manners, and +causing much annoyance to the Disagreeable Man, who was a true John Bull +in his contempt of all foreigners. The English table was, so he said, +like England herself: the haven of other nation's offscourings. + +There were several other signs, too, that the season was far advanced. +The food had fallen off in quality and quantity. The invalids, some of +them better and some of them worse, had become impatient. And plans were +being discussed, where formerly temperatures and coughs and general +symptoms were the usual subjects of conversation! The caretakers, too, +were in a state of agitation; some few keenly anxious to be of to new +pastures; and others, who had perhaps formed attachments, an occurrence +not unusual in Petershof, were wishing to hold back time with both +hands, and were therefore delighted that the weather, which had not +yet broken up, gave no legitimate excuse for immediate departure. + +Pretty Fräulein Müller had gone, leaving her Spanish gentleman quite +disconsolate for the time being. The French Marchioness had returned to +the Parisian circles where she was celebrated for all the domestic +virtues, from which she had been taking such a prolonged holiday in +Petershof. The little French danseuse and her poodle had left for Monte +Carlo. M. Lichinsky and his mother passed on to the Tyrol, where Madame +would no doubt have plenty of opportunities for quarrelling: or not +finding them, would certainly make them without any delay, by this means +keeping herself in good spirits and her son in bad health. There were +some, too, who had hurried off without paying their doctors: being of +course those who had received the greatest attention, and who had +expressed the greatest gratitude in their time of trouble, but who were +of opinion that thankfulness could very well take the place of francs: +an opinion not entirely shared by the doctors themselves. + +The Swedish professor had betaken himself off, with his chessmen and his +chessboard. The little Polish governess who clutched so eagerly at her +paltry winnings, caressing those centimes with the same fondness and +fever that a greater gambler grasps his thousands of francs, she, had +left too; and, indeed, most of Bernardine's acquaintances had gone their +several ways, after six months' constant intercourse, and companionship, +saying good-bye with the same indifference as though they were saying +good-morning or good-afternoon. + +This cold-heartedness struck Bernardine more than once, and she spoke +of it to Robert Allitsen. It was the day before her own departure, and +she had gone down with him to the restaurant, and sat sipping her +coffee, and making her complaint. + +"Such indifference is astonishing, and it is sad too. I cannot +understand it," she said. + +"That is because you are a goose," he replied, pouring out some more +coffee for himself, and as an after thought, for her too. "You pretend +to know something about the human heart, and yet you do not seem to +grasp the fact that most of us are very little interested in other +people: they for us and we for them can spare only a small fraction of +time and attention. We may, perhaps, think to the contrary, believing +that we occupy an important position in their lives; until one day, +when we are feeling most confident of our value, we see an unmistakable +sign, given quite unconsciously by our friends, that we are after all +nothing to them: we can be done without, put on one side, and forgotten +when not present. Then, if we are foolish, we are wounded by this +discovery, and we draw back into ourselves. But if we are wise, we draw +back into ourselves without being wounded: recognizing as fair and +reasonable that people can only have time and attention for their +immediate belongings. Isolated persons have to learn this lesson sooner +or later; and the sooner they do learn it, the better." + +"And you," she asked, "you have learnt this lesson?" + +"Long ago," he said decidedly. + +"You take a hard view of life," she said. + +"Life has not been very bright for me," he answered. "But I own that I +have not cultivated my garden. And now it is too late: the weeds have +sprung up everywhere. Once or twice I have thought lately that I would +begin to clear away the weeds, but I have not the courage now. And +perhaps it does not matter much." + +"I think it does matter," she said gently. "But I am no better than you, +for I have not cultivated my garden." + +"It would not be such a difficult business for you as for me," he said, +smiling sadly. + +They left the restaurant, and sauntered out together. + +"And to-morrow you will be gone," he said. + +"I shall miss you," Bernardine said. + +"That is simply a question of time," he remarked. "I shall probably miss +you at first. But we adjust ourselves easily to altered circumstances: +mercifully. A few days, a few weeks at most, and then that state of +becoming accustomed, called by pious folk, resignation." + +"Then you think that the every-day companionship, the every-day exchange +of thoughts and ideas, counts for little or nothing?" she asked. + +"That is about the colour of it," he answered, in his old gruff way. + +She thought of his words when she was packing: the many pleasant hours +were to count for nothing; for nothing the little bits of fun, the +little displays of temper and vexation, the snatches of serious talk, +the contradictions, and all the petty details of six months' close +companionship. + +He was not different from the others who had parted from her so lightly. +No wonder, then, that he could sympathise with them. + +That last night at Petershof, Bernardine hardened her heart against the +Disagreeable Man. + +"I am glad I am able to do so," she said to herself. "It makes it +easier for me to go." + +Then the vision of a forlorn figure rose before her. And the little +hard heart softened at once. + +In the morning they breakfasted together as usual. There was scarcely +any conversation between them. He asked for her address, and she told +him that she was going back to her uncle who kept the second-hand book- +shop in Stone Street. + +"I will send you a guide-book from the Tyrol," he explained. "I shall +be going there in a week or two to see my mother." + +"I hope you will find her in good health," she said. + +Then it suddenly flashed across her mind what he had told her about his +one great sacrifice for his mother's sake. She looked up at him, and he +met her glance without flinching. + +He said good-bye to her at the foot of the staircase. + +It was the first time she had ever shaken hands with him. + +"Good-bye," he said gently. "Good luck to you." + +"Good-bye," she answered. + +He went up the stairs, and turned round as though he wished to say +something more. But he changed his mind, and kept his own counsel. + +An hour later Bernardine left Petershof. Only the concierge of the +Kurhaus saw her off at the station. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A LOVE-LETTER. + + +TWO days after Bernardine had left Petershof, the snows began to melt. +Nothing could be drearier than that process: nothing more desolate than +the outlook. + +The Disagreeable Man sat in his bedroom trying to read Carpenter's +Anatomy. It failed to hold him. Then he looked out of the window, and +listened to the dripping of the icicles. At last he took a pen, and +wrote as follows: + +"LITTLE COMRADE, LITTLE PLAYMATE." + +"I could not believe that you were really going. When you first said +that you would soon be leaving, I listened with unconcern, because it +did not seem possible that the time could come when we should not be +together; that the days would come and go, and that I should not know +how you were; whether you were better, and more hopeful about your life +and your work, or whether the old misery of indifference and ill-health +was still clinging to you; whether your voice was strong as of one who +had slept well and felt refreshed, or whether it was weak like that of +one who had watched through the long night. + +"It did not seem possible that such a time could come. Many cruel things +have happened to me, as to scores of others, but this is the most cruel +of all. Against my wish and against my knowledge, you have crept into my +life as a necessity, and now I have to give you up. You are better, God +bless you, and you go back to a fuller life, and to carry on your work, +and to put to account those talents which no one realises more than I do; +and as for myself, God help me, I am left to wither away. + +"You little one, you dear little one, I never wished to love you. I had +never loved any one, never drawn near to any one. I have lived lonely +all my young life; for I am only a young man yet. I said to myself time +after time: 'I will not love her. It will not do me any good, nor her +any good.' And then in my state of health, what right had I to think of +marriage, and making a home for myself? Of course that was out of the +question. And then I thought, that because I was a doomed man, cut off +from the pleasures which make a lovely thing of life, it did not follow +that I might not love you in my own quiet way, hugging my secret to +myself, until the love became all the greater because it was my secret. +I reasoned about it too: it could not harm you that I loved you. No one +could be the worse for being loved. So little by little I yielded myself +this luxury; and my heart once so dried up, began to flower again; yes, +little one, you will smile when I tell you that my heart broke out into +flower. + +"When I think of it all now, I am not sorry that I let myself go. At +least I have learnt what I knew nothing of before: now I understand what +people mean when they say that love adds a dignity to life which nothing +else can give. That dignity is mine now, nothing can take it from me; +it is my own. You are my very own; I love everything about you. From the +beginning I recognized that you were clever and capable. Though I often +made fun of what you said, that was simply a way I had; and when I saw +you did not mind, I continued in that way, hoping always to vex you; +your good temper provoked me, because I knew that you made allowances +for me being a Petershof invalid. You would never have suffered a strong +man to criticize you as I did; you would have flown at him, for you are +a feverish little child: not a quiet woolly lamb. At first I was wild +that you should make allowances for me. And then I gave in, as weak men +are obliged. When you came, I saw that your troubles and sufferings +would make you bitter. Do you know who helped to cure you? _It was I_. +I have seen that often before. That is the one little bit of good I have +done in the world: I have helped to cure cynicism. You were shocked at +the things I said, and you were saved. I did not save you intentionally, +so I am not posing as a philanthropist. I merely mention that you came +here hard, and you went back tender. That was partly because you have +lived in the City of Suffering. Some people live there and learn +nothing. But you would learn to feel only too much. I wish that your +capacity for feeling were less; but then you would not be yourself, +your present self I mean, for you have changed even since I have known +you. Every week you seemed to become more gentle. You thought me rough +and gruff at parting, little comrade: I meant to be so. If you had only +known, there was a whole world of tenderness for you in my heart. I +could not trust myself to be tender to you; you would have guessed my +secret. And I wanted you to go away undisturbed. You do not feel things +lightly, and it was best for you that you should harden your heart +against me. + +"If you could harden your heart against me. But I am not sure about +that. I believe that . . . . Ah, well, I'm a foolish fellow; but some day, +dear, I'll tell you what I think . . . . I have treasured many of your +sayings in my memory. I can never be as though I had never known you. +Many of your words I have repeated to myself afterwards until they +seemed to represent my own thoughts. I specially remember what you +said about God having made us lonely, so that we might be obliged to +turn to him. For we are all lonely, though some of us not quite so much +as others. You yourself spoke often of being lonely. Oh, my own little +one! Your loneliness is nothing compared to mine. How often I could +have told you that. + +"I have never seen any of your work, but I think you have now something +to say to others, and that you will say it well. And if you have the +courage to be simple when it comes to the point, you will succeed. And +I believe you will have the courage, I believe everything of you. + +"But whatever you do or do not, you will always be the same to me: my +own little one, my very own. I have been waiting all my life for you; +and I have given you my heart entire. If you only knew that, you could +not call yourself lonely any more. If any one was ever loved, it is you, +dear heart. + +"Do you remember how those peasants at the Gasthaus thought we were +betrothed? I thought that might annoy you; and though I was relieved at +the time, still, later on, I wished you had been annoyed. That would +have shown that you were not indifferent. From that time my love for +you grew apace. You must not mind me telling you so often; I must go on +telling you. Just think, dear, this is the first love-letter I have ever +written: and every word of love is a whole world of love. I shall never +call my life a failure now. I may have failed in everything else, but +not in loving. Oh, little one, it can't be that I am not to be with you, +and not to have you for my own! And yet how can that be? It is not I who +may hold you in my arms. Some strong man must love and wrap you round +with tenderness and softness. You little independent child, in spite of +all your wonderful views and theories, you will soon be glad to lean on +some one for comfort and sympathy. And then perhaps that troubled little +spirit of yours may find its rest. Would to God I were that strong man! + +"But because I love you, my own little darling, I will not spoil your +life. I won't ask you to give me even one thought. But if I believed +that it were of any good to say a prayer, I should pray that you may +soon find that strong man; for it is not well for any of us to stand +alone. There comes a time when the loneliness is more than we can bear. + +"There is one thing I want you to know: indeed I am not the gruff fellow +I have so often seemed. Do believe that. Do you remember how I told you +that I dreamed of losing you? And now the dream has come true. I am +always looking for you, and cannot find you. + +"You have been very good to me; so patient, and genial, and frank. No +one before has ever been so good. Even if I did not love you, I should +say that. + +"But I do love you, no one can take that from me: it is my own dignity, +the crown of my life. Such a poor life . . . no, no, I won't say that +now. I cannot pity myself now . . . no, I cannot . . . ." + +The Disagreeable Man stopped writing, and the pen dropped on the table. + +He buried his tear-stained face in his hands. He cried his heart out, +this Disagreeable Man. + +Then he took the letter which he had just been writing, and he tore it +into fragments. + +END OF PART I. + + + + +PART II. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. + + +IT was now more than three weeks since Bernardine's return to London. +She had gone back to her old home, at her uncle's second-hand book-shop. +She spent her time in dusting the books, and arranging them in some +kind of order; for old Zerviah Holme had ceased to interest himself +much in his belongings, and sat in the little inner room reading as +usual Gibbon's "History of Rome." Customers might please themselves +about coming: Zerviah Holme had never cared about amassing money, and +now he cared even less than before. A frugal breakfast, a frugal dinner, +a box full of snuff, and a shelf full of Gibbon were the old man's only +requirements: an undemanding life, and therefore a loveless one; since +the less we ask for, the less we get. + +When Malvina his wife died, people said: "He will miss her." + +But he did not seem to miss her: he took his breakfast, his pinch of +snuff, his Gibbon, in precisely the same way as before, and in the same +quantities. + +When Bernardine first fell ill, people said: "He will be sorry. He is +fond of her in his own queer way." + +But he did not seem to be sorry. He did not understand anything about +illness. The thought of it worried him; so he put it from him. He +remembered vaguely that Bernardine's father had suddenly become ill, +that his powers had all failed him, and that he lingered on, just a +wreck of humanity, and then died. That was twenty years ago. Then he +thought of Bernardine, and said to himself, "History repeats itself." +That was all. + +Unkind? No; for when it was told him that she must go away, he looked +at her wonderingly, and then went out. It was very rarely that he went +out. He came back with fifty pounds. + +"When that is done," he told her, "I can find more." + +When she went away, people said: "He will be lonely." + +But he did not seem to be lonely. They asked him once, and he said: +"I always have Gibbon." + +And when she came back, they said: "He will be glad." + +But her return seemed to make no difference to him. + +He looked at her in his usual sightless manner, and asked her what she +intended to do. + +"I shall dust the books," she said. + +"Ah, I dare say they want it," he remarked. + +"I shall get a little teaching to do," she continued. "And I shall take +care of you." + +"Ah," he said vaguely. He did not understand what she meant. She had +never been very near to him, and he had never been very near to her. +He had taken but little notice of her comings and goings; she had either +never tried to win his interest or had failed: probably the latter. Now +she was going to take care of him. + +This was the home to which Bernardine had returned. She came back with +many resolutions to help to make his old age bright. She looked back +now, and saw how little she had given of herself to her aunt and her +uncle. Aunt Malvina was dead, and Bernardine did not regret her. Uncle +Zerviah was here still; she would be tender with him, and win his +affection. She thought she could not begin better than by looking after +his books. Each one was dusted carefully. The dingy old shop was +restored to cleanliness. Bernardine became interested in her task. +"I will work up the business," she thought. She did not care in the +least about the books; she never looked into them except to clean them; +but she was thankful to have the occupation at hand: something to help +her over a difficult time. For the most trying part of an illness is +when we are ill no longer; when there is no excuse for being idle and +listless; when, in fact, we could work if we would: then is the moment +for us to begin on anything which presents itself, until we have the +courage and the inclination to go back to our own particular work: that +which we have longed to do, and about which we now care nothing. + +So Bernardine dusted books and sometimes sold them. All the time she +thought of the Disagreeable Man. She missed him in her life. She had +never loved before, and she loved him. The forlorn figure rose before +her, and her eyes filled with tears. Sometimes the tears fell on the +books, and spotted them. + +Still, on the whole she was bright; but she found things difficult. She +had lost her old enthusiasms, and nothing yet had taken their place. +She went back to the circle of her acquaintances, and found that she +had slipped away from touch with them. Whilst she had been ill, they +had been busily at work on matters social and educational and political. + +She thought them hard, the women especially: they thought her weak. +They were disappointed in her; she was now looking for the more human +qualities in them, and she, too, was disappointed. + +"You have changed," they said to her: "but then of course you have been +ill, haven't you?" + +With these strong, active people, to be ill and useless is a reproach. +And Bernardine felt it as such. But she had changed, and she herself +perceived it in many ways. It was not that she was necessarily better, +but that she was different; probably more human, and probably less self- +confident. She had lived in a world of books, and she had burst through +that bondage and come out into a wider and a freer land. + +New sorts of interests came into her life. What she had lost in +strength, she had gained in tenderness. Her very manner was gentler, +her mode of speech less assertive. At least, this was the criticism of +those who had liked her but little before her illness. + +"She has learnt," they said amongst themselves. And they were not +scholars. They _knew_. + +These, two or three of them, drew her nearer to them. She was alone +there with the old man, and, though better, needed care. They mothered +her as well as they could, at first timidly, and then with that sweet +despotism which is for us all an easy yoke to bear. They were drawn to +her as they had never been drawn before. They felt that she was no +longer analysing them, weighing them in her intellectual balance, and +finding them wanting; so they were free with her now, and revealed to +her qualities at which she had never guessed before. + +As the days went on, Zerviah began to notice that things were somehow +different. He found some flowers near his table. He was reading about +Nero at the time; but he put aside his Gibbon, and fondled the flowers +instead. Bernardine did not know that. + +One morning when she was out, he went into the shop and saw a great +change there. Some one had been busy at work. The old man was pleased: +he loved his books, though of late he had neglected them. + +"She never used to take any interest in them," he said to himself. +"I wonder why she does now?" + +He began to count upon seeing her. When she came back from her outings, +he was glad. But she did not know. If he had given any sign of welcome +to her during those first difficult days, it would have been a great +encouragement to her. + +He watched her feeding the sparrows. One day when she was not there, he +went and did the same. Another day when she had forgotten, he surprised +her by reminding her. + +"You have forgotten to feed the sparrows," he said. "They must be quite +hungry." + +That seemed to break the ice a little. The next morning when she was +arranging some books in the old shop, he came in and watched her. + +"It is a comfort to have you," he said. That was all he said, but +Bernardine flushed with pleasure. + +"I wish I had been more to you all these years," she said gently. + +He did not quite take that in: and returned hastily to Gibbon. + +Then they began to stroll out together. They had nothing to talk about: +he was not interested in the outside world, and she was not interested +in Roman History. But they were trying to get nearer to each other: they +had lived years together, but they had never advanced a step; now they +were trying, she consciously, he unconsciously. But it was a slow +process, and pathetic, as everything human is. + +"If we could only find some subject which we both liked," Bernardine +thought to herself. "That might knit us together." + +Well, they found a subject; though, perhaps, it was an unlikely one. +The cart-horses: those great, strong, patient toilers of the road +attracted their attention, and after that no walk was without its +pleasure or interest. The brewers' horses were the favourites, though +there were others, too, which met with their approval. He began to know +and recognize them. He was almost like a child in his newfound interest. +On Whit Monday they both went to the cart-horse parade in Regent's Park. +They talked about the enjoyment for days afterwards. + +"Next year," he told her, "we must subscribe to the fund, even if we +have to sell a book." + +He did not like to sell his books: he parted with them painfully, as +some people part with their illusions. + +Bernardine bought a paper for herself every day; but one evening she +came in without one. She had been seeing after some teaching, and had +without any difficulty succeeded in getting some temporary light work +at one of the high schools. She forgot to buy her newspaper. + +The old man noticed this. He put on his shabby felt hat, and went down +the street, and brought in a copy of the _Daily News_. + +"I don't remember what you like, but will this do?" he asked. + +He was quite proud of himself for showing her this attention, almost as +proud as the Disagreeable Man, when he did something kind and thoughtful. + +Bernardine thought of him, and the tears came into her eyes at once. +When did she not think of him? Then she glanced at the front sheet, and +in the death column her eye rested on his name: and she read that Robert +Allitsen's mother had passed away. So the Disagreeable Man had won his +freedom at last. His words echoed back to her: + +"But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt anything else, I have +learnt how to wait. And some day I shall be free. And then . . . ." + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK. + + +AFTER the announcement of Mrs. Allitsen's death, Bernardine lived in a +misery of suspense. Every day she scanned the obituary, fearing to find +the record of another death, fearing and yet wishing to know. The +Disagreeable Man had yearned for his freedom these many years, and now +he was at liberty to do what he chose with his poor life. It was of no +value to him. Many a time she sat and shuddered. Many a time she began +to write to him. Then she remembered that after all he had cared nothing +for her companionship. He would not wish to hear from her. And besides, +what had she to say to him? + +A feeling of desolation came over her. It was not enough for her to take +care of the old man who was drawing nearer to her every day; nor was it +enough for her to dust the books, and serve any chance customers who +might look in. In the midst of her trouble she remembered some of her +old ambitions; and she turned to them for comfort as we turn to old +friends. + +"I will try to begin my book," she said to herself. "If I can only get +interested in it, I shall forget my anxiety!" + +But the love of her work had left her. Bernardine fretted. She sat in +the old bookshop, her pen unused, her paper uncovered. She was very +miserable. + +Then one evening when she was feeling that it was of no use trying to +force herself to begin her book, she took her pen suddenly, and wrote +the following prologue. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE. + + +FAILURE and Success passed away from Earth, and found themselves in a +Foreign Land. Success still wore her laurel-wreath which she had won on +Earth. There was a look of ease about her whole appearance; and there +was a smile of pleasure and satisfaction on her face, as though she knew +she had done well and had deserved her honours. + +Failure's head was bowed: no laurel-wreath encircled it. Her face was +wan, and pain-engraven. She had once been beautiful and hopeful, but +she had long since lost both hope and beauty. They stood together, +these two, waiting for an audience with the Sovereign of the Foreign +Land. An old grey-haired man came to them and asked their names. + +"I am Success," said Success, advancing a step forward, and smiling at +him, and pointing to her laurel-wreath. + +He shook his head. + +"Ah," he said, "do not be too confident. Very often things go by +opposites in this land. What you call Success, we often call Failure; +what you call Failure, we call Success. Do you see those two men waiting +there? The one nearer to us was thought to be a good man in your world; +the other was generally accounted bad. But here we call the bad man +good, and the good man bad. That seems strange to you. Well then, look +yonder. You considered that statesman to be sincere; but we say he was +insincere. We chose as our poet-laureate a man at whom your world +scoffed. Ay, and those flowers yonder: for us they have a fragrant +charm; we love to see them near us. But you do not even take the trouble +to pluck them from the hedges where they grow in rich profusion. So, you +see, what we value as a treasure, you do not value at all." + +Then he turned to Failure. + +"And your name?" he asked kindly, though indeed he must have known it. + +"I am Failure," she said sadly. + +He took her by the hand. + +"Come, now, Success," he said to her: "let me lead you into the +Presence-Chamber." + +Then she who had been called Failure, and was now called Success, +lifted up her bowed head, and raised her weary frame, and smiled at +the music of her new name. And with that smile she regained her beauty +and her hope. And hope having come back to her, all her strength +returned. + +"But what of her," she asked regretfully of the old grey-haired man; +"must she be left?" + +"She will learn," the old man whispered. "She is learning already. +Come, now: we must not linger." + +So she of the new name passed into the Presence-Chamber. + +But the Sovereign said: + +"The world needs you, dear and honoured worker. You know your real +name: do not heed what the world may call you. Go back and work, but +take with you this time unconquerable hope." + +So she went back and worked, taking with her unconquerable hope, and +the sweet remembrance of the Sovereign's words, and the gracious music +of her Real Name. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM. + + +THE morning after Bernardine began her book, she and old Zerviah were +sitting together in the shop. He had come from the little inner room +where he had been reading Gibbon for the last two hours. He still held +the volume in his hand; but he did not continue reading, he watched her +arranging the pages of a dilapidated book. + +Suddenly she looked up from her work. + +"Uncle Zerviah," she said brusquely, "you have lived through a long +life, and must have passed through many different experiences. Was +there ever a time when you cared for people rather than books?" + +"Yes," he answered a little uneasily. He was not accustomed to have +questions asked of him. + +"Tell me about it," she said. + +"It was long ago," he said half dreamily, "long before I married +Malvina. And she died. That was all." + +"That was all," repeated Bernardine, looking at him wonderingly. +Then she drew nearer to him. + +"And you have loved, Uncle Zerviah? And you were loved?" + +"Yes, indeed," he answered, softly. + +"Then you would not laugh at me if I were to unburden my heart to you?" + +For answer, she felt the touch of his old hand on her head. And thus +encouraged, she told him the story of the Disagreeable Man. She told him +how she had never before loved any one until she loved the Disagreeable +Man. + +It was all very quietly told, in a simple and dignified manner: +nevertheless, for all that, it was an unburdening of her heart; her +listener being an old scholar who had almost forgotten the very name of +love. + +She was still talking, and he was still listening, when the shop door +creaked. Zerviah crept quietly away, and Bernardine looked up. + +The Disagreeable Man stood at the counter. + +"You little thing," he said, "I have come to see you. It is eight years +since I was in England." + +Bernardine leaned over the counter. + +"And you ought not to be here now," she said, looking at his thin face. +He seemed to have shrunk away since she had last seen him. + +"I am free to do what I choose," he said. "My mother is dead." + +"I know," Bernardine said gently. "But you are not free." + +He made no answer to that, but slipped into the chair. + +"You look tired," he said. "What have you been doing?" + +"I have been dusting the books," she answered, smiling at him. "You +remember you told me I should be content to do that. The very oldest +and shabbiest have had my tenderest care. I found the shop in disorder. +You see it now." + +"I should not call it particularly tidy now," he said grimly. "Still, +I suppose you have done your best. Well, and what else?" + +"I have been trying to take care of my old uncle," she said. "We are +just beginning to understand each other a little. And he is beginning +to feel glad to have me. When I first discovered that, the days became +easier to me. It makes us into dignified persons when we find out that +there is a place for us to fill." + +"Some people never find it out," he said. + +"Probably, like myself, they went on for a long time, without caring," +she answered. "I think I have had more luck than I deserve." + +"Well," said the Disagreeable Man. "And you are glad to take up your +life again?" + +"No," she said quietly. "I have not got as far as that yet. But I +believe that after some little time I may be glad. I hope so, I am +working for that. Sometimes I begin to have a keen interest in +everything. I wake up with an enthusiasm. After about two hours I have +lost it again." + +"Poor little child," he said tenderly. "I, too know what that is. But +you _will_ get back to gladness: not the same kind of satisfaction as +before; but some other satisfaction, that compensation which is said +to be included in the scheme." + +"And I have begun my book," she said, pointing to a few sheets lying on +the counter: that is to say, I have written the Prologue." + +"Then the dusting of the books has not sufficed?" he said, scanning her +curiously. + +"I wanted not to think of myself," Bernardine, said. "Now that I have +begun it, I shall enjoy going on with it. I hope it will be a companion +to me." + +"I wonder whether you will make a failure or a success of it?" he +remarked. "I wish I could have seen." + +"So you will," she said. "I shall finish it, and you will read it in +Petershof." + +"I shall not be going back to Petershof," he said. "Why should I go +there now?" + +"For the same reason that you went there eight years ago," she said. + +"I went there for my mother's sake," he said. + +"Then you will go there now for my sake," she said deliberately. + +He looked up quickly. + +"Little Bernardine," he cried, "my Little Bernardine--is it possible +that you care what becomes of me?" + +She had been leaning against the counter, and now she raised herself, +and stood erect, a proud, dignified little figure. + +"Yes, I do care," she said simply, and with true earnestness. "I care +with all my heart. And even if I did not care, you know you would not +be free. No one is free. You know that better than I do. We do not +belong to ourselves: there are countless people depending on us, people +whom we have never seen, and whom we never shall see. What we do, +decides what they will be." + +He still did not speak. + +"But it is not for those others that I plead," she continued. "I plead +for myself. I can't spare you, indeed, indeed I can't spare you! . . ." + +Her voice trembled, but she went on bravely: + +"So you will go back to the mountains," she said. "You will live out +your life like a man. Others may prove themselves cowards, but the +Disagreeable Man has a better part to play." + +He still did not speak. Was it that he could not trust himself to words? +But in that brief time, the thoughts which passed through his mind were +such as to overwhelm him. A picture rose up before him: a picture of a +man and woman leading their lives together, each happy in the other's +love; not a love born of fancy, but a love based on comradeship and true +understanding of the soul. The picture faded, and the Disagreeable Man +raised his eyes and looked at the little figure standing near him. + +"Little child, little child," he said wearily, "since it is your wish, +I will go back to the mountains." + +Then he bent over the counter, and put his hand on hers. + +"I will come and see you to-morrow," he said. "I think there are one or +two things I want to say to you." + +The next moment he was gone. + +In the afternoon of that same day Bernardine went to the City. She was +not unhappy: she had been making plans for herself. She would work hard, +and fill her life as full as possible. There should be no room for +unhealthy thought. She would go and spend her holidays in Petershof. +There would be pleasure in that for him and for her. She would tell him +so to-morrow. She knew he would be glad. + +"Above all," she said to herself, "there shall be no room for unhealthy +thought. I must cultivate my garden." + +That was what she was thinking of at four in the afternoon: how she +could best cultivate her garden. + +At five she was lying unconscious in the accident-ward of the New +Hospital: she had been knocked down by a waggon, and terribly injured. + +She will not recover, the Doctor said to the nurse. "You see she is +sinking rapidly. Poor little thing!" + +At six she regained consciousness, and opened her eyes. The nurse bent +over her. Then she whispered: + +"Tell the Disagreeable Man how I wish I could have seen him to-morrow. +We had so much to say to each other. And now . . . ." + +The brown eyes looked at the nurse so entreatingly. It was a long time +before she could forget the pathos of those brown eyes. + +A few minutes later, she made another sign as though she wished to +speak. Nurse Katharine bent nearer. Then she whispered: + +"Tell the Disagreeable Man to go back to the mountains, and begin to +build his bridge: it must be strong and . . . ." + +Bernardine died. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE. + + +ROBERT ALLITSEN came to the old book-shop to see Zerviah Holme before +returning to the mountains. He found him reading Gibbon. These two men +had stood by Bernardine's grave. + +"I was beginning to know her," the old man said. + +"I have always known her," the young man said. "I cannot remember a +time when she has not been part of my life." + +"She loved you," Zerviah said. "She was telling me so the very morning +when you came." + +Then, with a tenderness which was almost foreign to him, Zerviah told +Robert Allitsen how Bernardine had opened her heart to him. She had +never loved any one before: but she had loved the Disagreeable Man. + +"I did not love him because I was sorry for him," she had said. "I +loved him for himself." + +Those were her very words. + +"Thank you," said the Disagreeable Man. "And God bless you for telling +me." + +Then he added: + +"There were some few loose sheets of paper on the counter. She had +begun her book. May I have them?" + +Zerviah placed them in his hand. + +"And this photograph," the old man said kindly. "I will spare it for +you." + +The picture of the little thin eager face was folded up with the papers. + +The two men parted. + +Zerviah Holme went back to his Roman History. The Disagreeable Man went +back to the mountains: to live his life out there, and to build his +bridge, as we all do, whether consciously or unconsciously. If it +breaks down, we build it again. + +"We will build it stronger this time," we say to ourselves. + +So we begin once more. + +We are very patient. + +And meanwhile the years pass. + + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Ships That Pass In The Night, by Beatrice Harraden + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12476 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d0d80e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #12476 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12476) diff --git a/old/12476-8.txt b/old/12476-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7ba7ad --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12476-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5143 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Ships That Pass In The Night, by Beatrice Harraden + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ships That Pass In The Night + +Author: Beatrice Harraden + +Release Date: May 30, 2004 [EBook #12476] +[Last updated: October 20, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT *** + + + + + + + + + +SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. + +CONTENTS. + +PART I. + +I. A NEW-COMER + +II. WHICH CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS + +III. MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS HER LESSON + +IV. CONCERNING WARLI AND MARIE + +V. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN + +VI. THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE + +VII. BERNARDINE + +VIII. THE STORY MOVES ON AT LAST + +IX. BERNARDINE PREACHES + +X. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT + +XI. "IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE" + +XII. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN MAKES A LOAN + +XIII. A DOMESTIC SCENE + +XIV. CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS + +XV. WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING + +XVI. WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE + +XVII. A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES + +XVIII. A BETROTHAL + +XIX. SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING + +XX. A LOVE-LETTER + +PART II. + +I. THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS + +II. BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK + +III. FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE + +IV. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM + +V. THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE + + + + +SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. + + + + +PART I. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A NEW-COMER. + + +"YES, indeed," remarked one of the guests at the English table, "yes, +indeed, we start life thinking that we shall build a great cathedral, +a crowning glory to architecture, and we end by contriving a mud hut!" + +"I am glad you think so well of human nature," said the Disagreeable Man, +suddenly looking up from the newspaper which he always read during meal- +time. "I should be more inclined to say that we end by being content to +dig a hole, and get into it, like the earth men." + +A silence followed these words; the English community at that end of the +table was struck with astonishment at hearing the Disagreeable Man speak. +The few sentences he had spoken during the last four years at Petershof +were on record; this was decidedly the longest of them all. + +"He is going to speak again," whispered beautiful Mrs. Reffold to her +neighbour. + +The Disagreeable Man once more looked up from his newspaper. + +"Please, pass me the Yorkshire relish," he said in his rough way to a +girl sitting next to him. + +The spell was broken, and the conversation started afresh. But the girl +who had passed the Yorkshire relish sat silent and listless, her food +untouched, and her wine untasted. She was small and thin; her face +looked haggard. She was a new-comer, and had, indeed, arrived at +Petershof only two hours before the _table-d'hôte_ bell rang. But there +did not seem to be any nervous shrinking in her manner, nor any shyness +at having to face the two hundred and fifty guests of the Kurhaus. She +seemed rather to be unaware of their presence; or, if aware of, +certainly indifferent to the scrutiny under which she was being placed. +She was recalled to reality by the voice of the Disagreeable Man. She +did not hear what he said, but she mechanically stretched out her hand +and passed him the mustard-pot. + +"Is that what you asked for?" she said half dreamily; "or was it the +water-bottle?" + +"You are rather deaf, I should think," said the Disagreeable Man +placidly. "I only remarked that it was a pity you were not eating your +dinner. Perhaps the scrutiny of the two hundred and fifty guests in +this civilized place is a vexation to you." + +"I did not know they were scrutinizing," she answered; "and even if +they are, what does it matter to me? I am sure I am quite too tired to +care." + +"Why have you come here?" asked the Disagreeable Man suddenly. + +"Probably for the same reason as yourself," she said; "to get better +or well." + +"You won't get better," he answered cruelly; "I know your type well; +you burn yourselves out quickly. And--my God--how I envy you!" + +"So you have pronounced my doom," she said, looking at him intently. +Then she laughed but there was no merriment in the laughter. + +"Listen," she said, as she bent nearer to him; "because you are +hopeless, it does not follow that you should try to make others +hopeless too. You have drunk deep of the cup of poison; I can see that. +To hand the cup on to others is the part of a coward." + +She walked past the English table, and the Polish table, and so out of +the Kurhaus dining-hall. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS. + + +IN an old second-hand bookshop in London, an old man sat reading +Gibbon's History of Rome. He did not put down his book when the postman +brought him a letter. He just glanced indifferently at the letter, and +impatiently at the postman. Zerviah Holme did not like to be interrupted +when he was reading Gibbon; and as he was always reading Gibbon, an +interruption was always regarded by him as an insult. + +About two hours afterwards, he opened the letter, and learnt that his +niece, Bernardine, had arrived safely in Petershof, and that she +intended to get better and come home strong. He tore up the letter, +and instinctively turned to the photograph on the mantelpiece. It was +the picture of a face young and yet old, sad and yet with possibilities +of merriment, thin and drawn and almost wrinkled, and with piercing eyes +which, even in the dull lifelessness of the photograph, seemed to be +burning themselves away. Not a pleasing nor a good face; yet intensely +pathetic because of its undisguised harassment. + +Zerviah looked at it for a moment. + +"She has never been much to either of us," he said to himself. "And yet, +when Malvina was alive, I used to think that she was hard on Bernardine. +I believe I said so once or twice. But Malvina had her own way of +looking at things. Well, that is over now." + +He then, with characteristic speed, dismissed all thoughts which did not +relate to Roman History; and the remembrance of Malvina, his wife, and +Bernardine, his niece, took up an accustomed position in the background +of his mind. + +Bernardine had suffered a cheerless childhood in which dolls and toys +took no leading part. She had no affection to bestow on any doll, nor +any woolly lamb, nor apparently on any human person; unless, perhaps, +there was the possibility of a friendly inclination towards Uncle +Zerviah, who would not have understood the value of any deeper feeling, +and did not therefore call the child cold-hearted and unresponsive, as +he might well have done. + +This she certainly was, judged by the standard of other children; but +then no softening influences had been at work during her tenderest +years. Aunt Malvina knew as much about sympathy as she did about the +properties of an ellipse; and even the fairies had failed to win little +Bernardine. At first they tried with loving patience what they might do +for her; they came out of their books, and danced and sang to her, and +whispered sweet stories to her, at twilight, the fairies' own time. But +she would have none of them, for all their gentle persuasion. So they +gave up trying to please her, and left her as they had found her, +loveless. What can be said of a childhood which even the fairies have +failed to touch with the warm glow of affection? + +Such a little restless spirit, striving to express itself now in this +direction, now in that; yet always actuated by the same constant force, +_the desire for work_. Bernardine seemed to have no special wish to be +useful to others; she seemed just to have a natural tendency to work, +even as others have a natural tendency to play. She was always in +earnest; life for little Bernardine meant something serious. + +Then the years went by. She grew up and filled her life with many +interests and ambitions. She was at least a worker, if nothing else; +she had always been a diligent scholar, and now she took her place as an +able teacher. She was self-reliant, and, perhaps, somewhat conceited. +But, at least, Bernardine the young woman had learnt something which +Bernardine the young child had not been able to learn: she learnt how +to smile. It took her, about six and twenty years to learn; still, +some people take longer than that; in fact, many never learn. This is +a brief summary of Bernardine Holme's past. + +Then, one day, when she was in the full swing of her many engrossing +occupations: teaching, writing articles for newspapers, attending +socialistic meetings, and taking part in political discussions--she was +essentially a modern product, this Bernardine--one day she fell ill. +She lingered in London for some time, and then she went to Petershof. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS A LESSON. + + +PETERSHOF was a winter resort for consumptive patients, though, indeed, +many people simply needed the change of a bracing climate went there to +spend a few months; and came, away wonderfully better for the mountain +air. This was what Bernardine Holme hoped to do; she was broken down in +every way, but it was thought that a prolonged stay in Petershof might +help her back to a reasonable amount of health, or, at least, prevent +her from slipping into further decline. She had come alone, because she +had no relations except that old uncle, and no money to pay any friend +who might have been willing to come with her. But she probably cared +very little, and the morning after her arrival, she strolled out by +herself, investigating the place where she was about to spend six months. +She was dragging herself along, when she met the Disagreeable Man. She +stopped him. He was not accustomed to be stopped by any one, and he +looked rather astonished. + +"You were not very cheering last night," she said to him. + +"I believe I am not generally considered to be lively," he answered, as +he knocked the snow off his boot. + +"Still, I am sorry I spoke to you as I did," she went on frankly. "It +was foolish of me to mind what you said." + +He made no reference to his own remark, and passing on his way again, +when he turned back and walked with her. + +"I have been here nearly seven years," he said and there was a ring of +sadness in his voice as he spoke, which he immediately corrected. "If +you want to know anything about the place, I can tell you. If you are +able to walk, I can show you some lovely spots, where you will not be +bothered with people. I can take you to a snow fairy-land. If you are +sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not +all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig the +snow away, you will find the tiny buds nestling in their white nursery. +If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you may always see the great +mountains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me. +You are not too ill but that they may be a happiness to you also." + +"Nothing can be much of a happiness to me," she said, half to herself, +and her lips quivered. "I have had to give up so much: all my work, +all my ambitions." + +"You are not the only one who has had to do that," he said sharply. +"Why make a fuss? Things arrange themselves, and eventually we adjust +ourselves to the new arrangement. A great deal of caring and grieving, +phase one; still more caring and grieving, phase two; less caring and +grieving, phase three; no further feeling whatsoever, phase four. +Mercifully I am at phase four. You are at phase one. Make a quick +journey over the stages." + +He turned and left her, and she strolled along, thinking of his words, +wondering how long it would take her to arrive at his indifference. +She had always looked upon indifference as paralysis of the soul, and +paralysis meant death, nay, was worse than death. And here was this man, +who had obviously suffered both mentally and physically, telling her +that the only sensible course was to learn not to care. How could she +learn not to care? All her life long she had studied and worked and +cultivated herself in every direction in the hope of being able to take +a high place in literature, or, in any case, to do something in life +distinctly better than what other people did. When everything was coming +near to her grasp, when there seemed a fair chance of realizing her +ambitions, she had suddenly fallen ill, broken up so entirely in every +way, that those who knew her when she was well, could scarcely recognize +her now that she was ill. The doctors spoke of an overstrained nervous +system: the pestilence of these modern days; they spoke of rest, change +of work and scene, bracing air. She might regain her vitality; she might +not. Those who had played themselves out must pay the penalty. She was +thinking of her whole history, pitying herself profoundly, coming to +the conclusion, after true human fashion, that she was the worst-used +person on earth, and that no one but herself knew what disappointed +ambitions were; she was thinking of all this, and looking profoundly +miserable and martyr-like, when some one called her by her name. She +looked round and saw one of the English ladies belonging to the Kurhaus; +Bernardine had noticed her the previous night. She seemed in capital +spirits, and had three or four admirers waiting on her very words. +She was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a superb fur-trimmed cloak, +a woman of splendid bearing and address. Bernardine looked a +contemptible little piece of humanity beside her. Some such impression +conveyed itself to the two men who were walking with Mrs. Reffold. +They looked at the one woman, and then at the other, and smiled at each +other, as men do smile on such occasions. + +"I am going to speak to this little thing," Mrs. Reffold had said to +her two companions before they came near Bernardine. "I must find out +who she is, and where she comes from. And, fancy, she has come quite +alone. I have inquired. How hopelessly out of fashion she dresses. +And what a hat!" + +"I should not take the trouble to speak to her," said one of the men. +"She may fasten herself on to you. You know what a bore that is." + +"Oh, I can easily snub any one if I wish," replied Mrs. Reffold, +rather disdainfully. + +So she hastened up to Bernardine, and held out her well-gloved hand. + +"I had not a chance of speaking to you last night, Miss Holme," she +said. "You retired so early. I hope you have rested after your journey. +You seemed quite worn out." + +"Thank you," said Bernardine, looking admiringly at the beautiful woman, +and envying her, just as all plain women envy their handsome sisters. + +"You are not alone, I suppose?" continued Mrs. Reffold. + +"Yes, quite alone," answered Bernardine. + +"But you are evidently acquainted with Mr. Allitsen, your neighbour at +table," said Mrs. Reffold; "so you will not feel quite lonely here. +It is a great advantage to have a friend at a place like this." + +"I never saw him before last night," said Bernardine. + +"Is it possible?" said Mrs. Reffold, in her pleasantest voice. "Then +you _have_ made a triumph of the Disagreeable Man. He very rarely deigns +to talk with any of us. He does not even appear to see us. He sits +quietly and reads. It would be interesting to hear what his conversation +is like. I should be quite amused to know what you did talk about." + +"I dare say you would," said Bernardine quietly. + +Then Mrs. Reffold, wishing to screen her inquisitiveness, plunged into a +description of Petershof life, speaking enthusiastically about +everything, except the scenery, which she did not mention. After a time +she ventured to begin once more taking soundings. But some how or other, +those bright eyes of Bernardine, which looked at her so searchingly, +made her a little nervous, and, perhaps, a little indiscreet. + +"Your father will miss you," she said tentatively. + +"I should think probably not," answered Bernardine. "One is not easily +missed, you know." There was a twinkle in Bernardine's eye as she added, +"He is probably occupied with other things!" + +"What is your father?" asked Mrs. Reffold, in her most coaxing tones. + +"I don't know what he is now," answered Bernardine placidly. "But he +was a genius. He is dead." + +Mrs. Reffold gave a slight start, for she began to feel that this +insignificant little person was making fun of her. This would never do, +and before witnesses too. So she gathered together her best resources +and said: + +"Dear me, how very unfortunate: a genius too. Death is indeed cruel. +And here one sees so much of it, that unless one learns to steel one's +heart, one becomes melancholy. Ah, it is indeed sad to see all this +suffering!" (Mrs Reffold herself had quite succeeded in steeling her +heart against her own invalid husband.) She then gave an account of +several bad cases of consumption, not forgetting to mention two +instances of suicide which had lately taken place in Petershof. + +"One gentleman was a Russian," she said. "Fancy coming all the way, +from Russia to this little out-of-the-world place! But people come from +the uttermost ends of the earth, though of course there are many +Londoners here. I suppose you are from London?" + +"I am not living in London now," said Bernardine cautiously. + +"But you know it, without doubt," continued Mrs. Reffold. "There are +several Kensington people here. You may meet some friends: indeed in +our hotel there are two or three families from Lexham Gardens." + +Bernardine smiled a little viciously; looked first at Mrs. Reffold's +two companions with an amused sort of indulgence, and then at the lady +herself. She paused a moment, and then said: + +"Have you asked all the questions you wish to ask? And, if so, may I +ask one of you. Where does one get the best tea?" + +Mrs. Reffold gave an inward gasp, but pointed gracefully to a small +confectionery shop on the other side of the road. Mrs. Reffold did +everything gracefully. + +Bernardine thanked her, crossed the road, and passed into the shop. + +"Now I have taught her a lesson not to interfere with me," said +Bernardine to herself. "How beautiful she is." + +Mrs. Reffold and her two companions went silently on their way. +At last the silence was broken. + +"Well, I'm blessed!" said the taller of the two, lighting a cigar. + +"So am I," said the other, lighting his cigar too. + +"Those are precisely my own feelings," remarked Mrs. Reffold. + +But she had learnt her lesson. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +CONCERNING WÄRLI AND MARIE. + + +WÄRLI, the little hunchback postman, a cheery soul, came whistling up +the Kurhaus stairs, carrying with him that precious parcel of registered +letters, which gave him the position of being the most important person +in Petershof. He was a linguist, too, was Wärli, and could speak broken +English in a most fascinating way, agreeable to every one, but +intelligible only to himself. Well, he came whistling up the stairs +when he heard Marie's blithe voice humming her favourite spinning-song. + +"Ei, Ei!" he said to himself; "Marie is in a good temper to-day. I will +give her a call as I pass." + +He arranged his neckerchief and smoothed his curls; and when he reached +the end of the landing, he paused outside a little glass-door, and, all +unobserved, watched Marie in her pantry cleaning the candlesticks and +lamps. + +Marie heard a knock, and, looking up from her work, saw Wärli. + +"Good day, Wärli," she said, glancing hurriedly at a tiny broken mirror +suspended on the wall. "I suppose you have a letter for me. How +delightful!" + +"Never mind about the letter just now," he said, waving his hand as +though wishing to dismiss the subject. "How nice to hear you singing +so sweetly, Marie! Dear me, in the old days at Grüsch, how often I have +heard that song of the spinning-wheels. You have forgotten the old days, +Marie, though you remember the song." + +"Give me my letter, Wärli, and go about your work," said Marie, +pretending to be impatient. But all the same her eyes looked extremely +friendly. There was something very winning about the hunchback's face. + +"Ah, ah! Marie," he said, shaking his curly head; "I know how it is +with you: you only like people in fine binding. They have not always +fine hearts." + +"What nonsense you talk Wärli!" said Marie "There, just hand me the +oil-can. You can fill this lamp for me. Not too full, you goose! And +this one also, ah, you're letting the oil trickle down! Why, you're +not fit for anything except carrying letters! Here, give me my letter." + +"What pretty flowers," said Wärli. "Now if there is one thing I do like, +it is a flower. Can you spare me one, Marie? Put one in my button-hole, +do!" + +"You are a nuisance this afternoon," said Marie, smiling and pinning a +flower on Wärli's blue coat. Just then a bell rang violently. + +"Those Portuguese ladies will drive me quite mad," said Marie. "They +always ring just when I am enjoying myself?" + +"When you are enjoying yourself!" said Wärli triumphantly. + +"Of course," returned Marie; "I always do enjoy cleaning the oil-lamps; +I always did!" + +"Ah, I'd forgotten the oil-lamps!" said Wärli. + +"And so had I!" laughed Marie. "Na, na, there goes that bell again! +Won't they be angry! Won't they scold at me! Here, Wärli, give me my +letter, and I'll be off." + +"I never told you I had any letter for you," remarked Wärli. "It was +entirely your own idea. Good afternoon, Fräulein Marie." + +The Portuguese ladies' bell rang again, still more passionately this +time; but Marie did not seem to hear nor care. She wished to be +revenged on that impudent postman. She went to the top of the stairs +and called after Wärli in her most coaxing tones: + +"Do step down one moment; I want to show you something!" + +"I must deliver the registered letters," said Wärli, with official +haughtiness. "I have already wasted too much of my time." + +"Won't you waste a few more minutes on me?" pleaded Marie pathetically. +"It is not often I see you now." + +Wärli came down again, looking very happy. + +"I want to show you such a beautiful photograph I've had taken," said +Marie. "Ach, it is beautiful!" + +"You must give one to me," said Wärli eagerly. + +"Oh, I can't do that," replied Marie, as she opened the drawer and took +out a small packet. "It was a present to me from the Polish gentleman +himself. He saw me the other day here in the pantry. I was so tired, +and I had fallen asleep with my broom, just as you see me here. So he +made a photograph of me. He admires me very much. Isn't it nice? and +isn't the Polish gentleman clever? and isn't it nice to have so much +attention paid to one? Oh, there's that horrid bell again! Good +afternoon, Herr Wärli. That is all I have to say to you, thank you." + +Wärli's feelings towards the Polish gentleman were not of the +friendliest that day. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. + + +ROBERT ALLITSEN told Bernardine that she was not likely to be on +friendly terms with the English people in the Kurhaus. + +"They will not care about you, and you will not care about the +foreigners. So you will thus be thrown on your own resources, +just as I was when I came." + +"I cannot say that I have any resources," Bernardine answered. "I don't +feel well enough to try to do any writing, or else it would be +delightful to have the uninterrupted leisure." + +So she had probably told him a little about her life and occupation; +although it was not likely that she would have given him any serious +confidences. Still, people are often surprisingly frank about +themselves, even those who pride themselves upon being the most +reticent mortals in the world. + +"But now, having the leisure," she continued, "I have not the brains!" + +"I never knew any writer who had," said the Disagreeable Man grimly. + +"Perhaps your experience has been limited," she suggested. + +"Why don't you read?" he said. "There is a good library here. It +contains all the books we don't want to read." + +"I am tired of reading," Bernardine said. "I seem to have been reading +all my life. My uncle, with whom I live, keeps, a second-hand book-shop, +and ever since I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. They +have not done me much good, nor any one else either." + +"No, probably not," he said. "But now that you have left off reading, +you will have a chance of learning something, if you live long enough. +It is wonderful how much one does learn when one does not read. It is +almost awful. If you don't care about reading now, why do you not +occupy yourself with cheese-mites?" + +"I do not feel drawn towards cheese-mites." + +"Perhaps not, at first; but all the same they form a subject which is +very engaging. Or any branch of bacteriology." + +"Well, if you were to lend me your microscope, perhaps I might begin." + +"I could not do that," he answered quickly. "I never lend my things." + +"No, I did not suppose you would," she said. "I knew I was safe in +making the suggestion." + +"You are rather quick of perception in spite of all your book reading," +he said. "Yes, you are quite right. I am selfish. I dislike lending my +things, and I dislike spending my money except on myself. If you have +the misfortune to linger on as I do you will know that it is perfectly +legitimate to be selfish in small things, _if one has made the one +great sacrifice_." + +"And what may that be?" + +She asked so eagerly that he looked at her, and then saw how worn and +tired her face was; and the words which he was intending to speak, +died on his lips. + +"Look at those asses of people on toboggans," he said brusquely. "Could +you manage to enjoy yourself in that way? That might do you good." + +"Yes," she said; "but it would not be any pleasure to me." + +She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road. And the +Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a +face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable. + +He had lived nearly seven years at Petershof, and, like many others was +obliged to continue staying there if he wished to continue staying in +this planet. It was not probable that he had any wish to prolong his +frail existence, but he did his duty to his mother by conserving his +life; and this feeble flame of duty and affection was the only lingering +bit of warmth in a heart frozen almost by ill health and disappointed +ambitions. The moralists tell us that suffering ennobles, and that a +right acceptation of hindrances goes towards forming a beautiful +character. But this result must largely depend on the original +character: certainly, in the case of Robert Allitsen, suffering had not +ennobled his mind, nor disappointment sweetened his disposition. His +title of "Disagreeable Man" had been fairly earned, and he hugged it to +himself with a triumphant secret satisfaction. + +There were some people in Petershof who were inclined to believe certain +absurd rumours about his alleged kindness. It was said that on more than +one occasion he had nursed the suffering and the dying in sad Petershof, +and, with all the sorrowful tenderness worthy of a loving mother, had +helped them to take their leave of life. But these were only rumours, +and there was nothing in Robert Allitsen's ordinary bearing to justify +such talk. So the foolish people who, for the sake of making themselves +peculiar, revived these unlikely fictions, were speedily ridiculed and +reduced to silence. And the Disagreeable Man remained the Disagreeable +Man, with a clean record for unamiability. + +He lived a life apart from others. Most of his time was occupied in +photography, or in the use and study of the microscope, or in chemistry. +His photographs were considered to be most beautiful. Not that he showed +them specially to any one; but he generally sent a specimen of his work +to the Monthly Photograph Portfolio, and hence it was that people +learned to know of his skill. He might be seen any fine day trudging +along in company with his photographic apparatus, and a desolate dog, +who looked almost as cheerless as his chosen comrade. Neither the one +took any notice of the other; Allitsen was no more genial to the dog +than he was to the Kurhaus guests; the dog was no more demonstrative +to Robert Allitsen than he was to any one in Petershof. + +Still, they were "something" to each other, that unexplainable +"something" which has to explain almost every kind of attachment. + +He had no friends in Petershof, and apparently had no friends anywhere. +No one wrote to him, except his old mother; the papers which were sent +to him came from a stationer's. + +He read all during meal-time. But now and again he spoke a few words +with Bernardine Holme, whose place was next to him. It never occurred +to him to say good morning, nor to give a greeting of any kind, nor to +show a courtesy. One day during lunch, however, he did take the trouble +to stoop and pick up Bernardine Holme's shawl, which had fallen for the +third time to the ground. + +"I never saw a female wear a shawl more carelessly than you," he said. +"You don't seem to know anything about it." + +His manner was always gruff. Every one complained of him. Every one +always had complained of him. He had never been heard to laugh. Once +or twice he had been seen to smile on occasions when people talked +confidently of recovering their health. It was a beautiful smile worthy +of a better cause. It was a smile which made one pause to wonder what +could have been the original disposition of the Disagreeable Man before +ill-health had cut him off from the affairs of active life. Was he happy +or unhappy? It was not known. He gave no sign of either the one state or +the other. He always looked very ill, but he did not seem to get worse. +He had never been known to make the faintest allusion to his own health. +He never "smoked" his thermometer in public; and this was the more +remarkable in an hotel where people would even leave off a conversation +and say: "Excuse me, Sir or Madam, I must now take my temperature. We +will resume the topic in a few minutes." + +He never lent any papers or books, and he never borrowed any. + +He had a room at the top of the hotel, and he lived his life, amongst +his chemistry bottles, his scientific books, his microscope, and his +camera. He never sat in any of the hotel drawing-rooms. There was +nothing striking nor eccentric about his appearance. He was neither +ugly nor good-looking, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark. +He was thin and frail, and rather bent. But that might be the +description of any one in Petershof. There was nothing pathetic about +him, no suggestion even of poetry, which gives a reverence to suffering, +whether mental or physical. As there was no expression on his face, +so also there was no expression in his eyes: no distant longing, no +far-off fixedness; nothing, indeed, to awaken sad sympathy. + +The only positive thing about him was his rudeness. Was it natural or +cultivated? No one in Petershof could say. He had always been as he was; +and there was no reason to suppose that he would ever be different. + +He was, in fact, like the glacier of which he had such a fine view from +his room; like the glacier, an unchanging feature of the neighbourhood. + +No one loved it better than the Disagreeable Man did; he watched the +sunlight on it, now pale golden, now fiery red. He loved the sky, the +dull grey, or the bright blue. He loved the snow forests, and the +snow-girt streams, and the ice cathedrals, and the great firs patient +beneath their snow-burden. He loved the frozen waterfalls, and the +costly diamonds in the snow. He knew, too, where the flowers nestled +in their white nursery. He was, indeed, an authority on Alpine botany. +The same tender hands which plucked the flowers in the spring-time, +dissected them and laid them bare beneath the microscope. But he did +not love them the less for that. + +Were these pursuits a comfort to him? Did they help him to forget that +there was a time when he, too, was burning with ambition to distinguish +himself, and be one of the marked men of the age? + +Who could say? + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE. + + +COUNTLESS ages ago a Traveller, much worn with journeying, climbed up +the last bit of rough road which led to the summit of a high mountain. +There was a temple on that mountain. And the Traveller had vowed that +he would reach it before death prevented him. He knew the journey was +long, and the road rough. He knew that the mountain was the most +difficult of ascent of that mountain chain, called "The Ideals." But +he had a strongly-hoping heart and a sure foot. He lost all sense of +time, but he never lost the feeling of hope. + +"Even if I faint by the way-side," he said to himself, "and am not +able to reach the summit, still it is something to be on the road +which leads to the High Ideals." + +That was how he comforted himself when he was weary. He never lost +more hope than that; and surely that was little enough. + +And now he had reached the temple. + +He rang the bell, and an old white-haired man opened the gate. He +smiled sadly when he saw the Traveller. + +"_And yet another one_," he murmured. "What does it all mean?" + +The Traveller did not hear what he murmured. + +"Old white-haired man," he said, "tell me; and so I have come at last +to the wonderful Temple of Knowledge. I have been journeying hither all +my life. Ah, but it is hard work climbing up to the Ideals." + +The old man touched the Traveller on the arm. "Listen," he said gently. +"This is not the Temple of Knowledge. And the Ideals are not a chain of +mountains; they are a stretch of plains, and the Temple of Knowledge is +in their centre. You have come the wrong road. Alas, poor Traveller!" + +The light in the Traveller's eyes had faded. The hope in his heart died. +And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff. + +"Can one rest here?" he asked wearily. + +"No." + +"Is there a way down the other side of these mountains?" + +"No." + +"What are these mountains called?" + +"They have no name." + +"And the temple--how do you call the temple?" + +"It has no name!" + +"Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts," said the Traveller. + +And he turned and went. But the old white-haired man followed him. + +"Brother," he said, "you are not the first to come here, but you may be +the last. Go back to the plains, and tell the dwellers in the plains +that the Temple of True Knowledge is in their very midst; any one may +enter it who chooses, the gate is not even closed. The Temple has +always been in the plains, in the very heart of life, and work, and +daily effort. The philosopher may enter, the stone-breaker may enter. +You must have passed it every day of your life; a plain, venerable +building, unlike your glorious cathedrals." + +"I have seen the children playing near it," said the Traveller. "When +I was a child I used to play there. Ah, if I had only known! Well, +the past is the past." + +He would have rested against a huge stone, but that the old white-haired +man prevented him. + +"Do not rest," he said. "If you once rest there, you will not rise again. +When you once rest, you will know how weary you are." + +"I have no wish to go farther," said the Traveller. "My journey is done; +it may have been in the wrong direction, but still it is done." + +"Nay, do not linger here," urged the old man. "Retrace your steps. +Though you are broken-hearted yourself, you may save others from +breaking their hearts. Those whom you meet on this road, you can turn +back. Those who are but starting in this direction you can bid pause +and consider how mad it is to suppose that the Temple of True Knowledge +should have been built on an isolated and dangerous mountain. Tell them +that although God seems hard, He is not as hard as all that. Tell them +that the Ideals are not a mountain range, but their own plains, where +their great cities are built, and where the corn grows, and where men +and women are toiling, sometimes in sorrow and sometimes in joy." + +"I will go," said the Traveller. + +And he started. + +But he had grown old and weary. And the journey was long; and the +retracing of one's steps is more toilsome than the tracing of them. +The ascent, with all the vigour and hope of life to help him, had been +difficult enough; the descent, with no vigour and no hope to help him, +was almost impossible. + +So that it was not probable that the Traveller lived to reach the plains. +But whether he reached them or not, still he had started. + +And not many Travellers do that. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +BERNARDINE. + + +THE crisp mountain air and the warm sunshine began slowly to have their +effect on Bernardine, in spite of the Disagreeable Man's verdict. She +still looked singularly lifeless, and appeared to drag herself about +with painful effort; but the place suited her, and she enjoyed sitting +in the sun listening to the music which was played by a scratchy string +band. Some of the Kurhaus guests, seeing that she was alone and ailing, +made some attempts to be kindly to her. She always seemed astonished +that people should concern themselves about her; whatever her faults +were, it never struck her that she might be of any importance to others, +however important she might be to herself. She was grateful for any +little kindness which was shewn her; but at first she kept very much to +herself, talking chiefly with the Disagreeable Man, who, by the way, +had surprised every one--but no one more than himself--by his unwonted +behaviour in bestowing even a fraction of his companionship on a +Petershof human being. + +There was a great deal of curiosity about her, but no one ventured to +question her since Mrs. Reffold's defeat. Mrs. Reffold herself rather +avoided her, having always a vague suspicion that Bernardine tried to +make fun of her. But whether out of perversity or not, Bernardine never +would be avoided by her, never let her pass by without a few words of +conversation, and always went to her for information, much to the +amusement of Mrs. Reffold's faithful attendants. There was always a +twinkle in Bernardine's eye when she spoke with Mrs. Reffold. She never +fastened herself on to any one; no one could say she intruded. As time +went, on there was a vague sort of feeling that she did not intrude +enough. She was ready to speak if any one cared to speak with her, but +she never began a conversation except with Mrs. Reffold. When people +did talk to her, they found her genial. Then the sad face would smile +kindly, and the sad eyes speak kind sympathy. Or some bit of fun would +flash forth, and a peal of young laughter ring out. It seemed strange +that such fun could come from her. + +Those who noticed her, said she appeared always to be thinking. + +She was thinking and learning. + +Some few remarks roughly made by the Disagreeable Man had impressed her +deeply. + +"You have come to a new world," he said, "the world of suffering. You +are in a fury because your career has been checked, and because you have +been put on the shelf; you, of all people. Now you will learn how many +quite as able as yourself, and abler, have been put on the shelf too, +and have to stay there. You are only a pupil in suffering. What about +the professors? If your wonderful wisdom has left you with any sense at +all, look about you and learn." + +So she was looking, and thinking, and learning. And as the days went by, +perhaps a softer light came into her eyes. + +All her life long, her standard of judging people had been an +intellectual standard, or an artistic standard: what people had done +with outward and visible signs; how far they had contributed to thought; +how far they had influenced any great movement, or originated it; how +much of a benefit they had been to their century or their country; how +much social or political activity, how much educational energy they had +devoted to the pressing need of the times. + +She was undoubtedly a clever, cultured young woman; the great work of +her life had been self-culture. To know and understand, she had spared +neither herself nor any one else. To know, and to use her acquired +knowledge intellectually as teacher and, perhaps, too, as writer, had +been the great aim of her life. Everything that furthered this aim won +her instant attention. It never struck her that she was selfish. One +does not think of that until the great check comes. One goes on, and +would go on. But a barrier rises up. Then, finding one can advance no +further, one turns round; and what does one see? + +Bernardine saw that she had come a long journey. She saw what the +Traveller saw. That was all she saw at first. Then she remembered that +she had done the journey entirely for her own sake. Perhaps it might +not have looked so dreary if it had been undertaken for some one else. + +She had claimed nothing of any one; she had given nothing to any one. +She had simply taken her life in her own hands and made what she could +of it. What had she made of it? + +Many women asked for riches, for position, for influence and authority +and admiration. She had only asked to be able to work. It seemed little +enough to ask. That she asked so little placed her, so she thought, +apart from the common herd of eager askers. To be cut off from active +life and earnest work was a possibility which never occurred to her. + +It never crossed her mind that in asking for the one thing for which +she longed, she was really asking for the greatest thing. Now, in the +hour of her enfeeblement, and in the hour of the bitterness of her +heart, she still prided herself upon wanting so little. + +"It seems so little to ask," she cried to herself time after time. +"I only want to be able to do a few strokes of work. I would be content +now to do so little, if only I might do some. The laziest day-labourer +on the road would laugh at the small amount of work which would content +me now." + +She told the Disagreeable Man that one day. + +"So you think you are moderate in your demands," he said to her. "You +are a most amusing young woman. You are so perfectly unconscious how +exacting you really are. For, after all, what is it you want? You want +to have that wonderful brain of yours restored, so that you may begin +to teach, and, perhaps, write a book. Well, to repeat my former words: +you are still at phase one, and you are longing to be strong enough to +fulfil your ambitions and write a book. When you arrive at phase four, +you will be quite content to dust one of your uncle's books instead: +far more useful work and far more worthy of encouragement. If every one +who wrote books now would be satisfied to dust books already written, +what a regenerated world it would become!" + +She laughed good-temperedly. His remarks did not vex her; or, at least, +she showed no vexation. He seemed to have constituted himself as her +critic, and she made no objections. She had given him little bits of +stray confidence about herself, and she received everything he had to +say with that kind of forbearance which chivalry bids us show to the +weak and ailing. She made allowances for him; but she did more than that +for him: she did not let him see that she made allowances. Moreover, +she recognized amidst all his roughness a certain kind of sympathy which +she could not resent, because it was not aggressive. For to some natures +the expression of sympathy is an irritation; to be sympathized with +means to be pitied, and to be pitied means to be looked down upon. She +was sorry for him, but she would not have told him so for worlds; he +would have shrunk from pity as much as she did. And yet the sympathy +which she thought she did not want for herself, she was silently giving +to those around her, like herself, thwarted, each in a different way +perhaps, still thwarted all the same. + +She found more than once that she was learning to measure people by a +standard different from her former one; not by what they had _done_ or +_been_, but by what they had _suffered_. But such a change as this does +not come suddenly, though, in a place like Petershof, it comes quickly, +almost unconsciously. + +She became immensely interested in some of the guests; and there were +curious types in the Kurhaus. The foreigners attracted her chiefly; a +little Parisian danseuse, none too quiet in her manner, won Bernardine's +fancy. + +"I so want to get better, _chérie_," she said to Bernardine. "Life is so +bright. Death: ah, how the very thought makes one shiver! That horrid +doctor says I must not skate; it is not wise. When was I wise? Wise +people don't enjoy themselves. And I have enjoyed myself, and will +still." + +"How can you go about with that little danseuse?" the Disagreeable Man +said to Bernardine one day. "Do you know who she is?" + +"Yes," said Bernardine; "she is the lady who thinks you must be a very +ill-bred person because you stalk into meals, with your hands in your +pockets. She wondered how I could bring myself to speak to you." + +"I dare say many people wonder at that," said Robert Allitsen rather +peevishly. + +"Oh no," replied Bernardine; "they wonder that you talk to me. They +think I must either be very clever or else very disagreeable." + +"I should not call you clever," said Robert Allitsen grimly. + +"No," answered Bernardine pensively. "But I always did think myself +clever until I came here. Now I am beginning to know better. But it +is rather a shock, isn't it?" + +"I have never experienced the shock," he said. + +"Then you still think you are clever?" she asked. + +"There is only one man my intellectual equal in Petershof, and he is +not here any more," he said gravely. "Now I come to remember, he died. +That is the worst of making friendships here; people die." + +"Still, it is something to be left king of the intellectual world," +said Bernardine. "I never thought of you in that light." + +There was a sly smile about her lips as she spoke, and there was the +ghost of a smile on the Disagreeable Man's face. + +"Why do you talk with that horrid Swede?" he said suddenly. "He is a +wretched low foreigner. Have you heard some of his views?" + +"Some of them," answered Bernardine cheerfully. "One of his views is +really amusing: that it is very rude of you to read the newspaper during +meal-time; and he asks if it is an English custom. I tell him it depends +entirely on the Englishman, and the Englishman's neighbour!" + +So she too had her raps at him, but always in the kindest way. + +He had a curious effect on her. His very bitterness seemed to check in +its growth her own bitterness. The cup of poison of which he himself had +drunk deep, he passed on to her. She drank of it, and it did not poison +her. She was morbid, and she needed cheerful companionship. His dismal +companionship and his hard way of looking at life ought by rights to +have oppressed her. Instead of which she became less sorrowful. + +Was the Disagreeable Man, perhaps, a reader of character? Did he know +how to help her in his own grim gruff way? He himself had suffered so +much; perhaps he did know. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE STORY MOVES ON AT LAST. + + +BERNARDINE was playing chess one day with the Swedish Professor. On the +Kurhaus terrace the guests were sunning themselves, warmly wrapped up to +protect themselves from the cold, and well-provided with parasols to +protect themselves from the glare. Some were reading, some were playing +cards or Russian dominoes, and others were doing nothing. There was a +good deal of fun, and a great deal of screaming amongst the Portuguese +colony. The little danseuse and three gentlemen acquaintances were +drinking coffee, and not behaving too quietly. Pretty Fräulein Müller was +leaning over her balcony carrying on a conversation with a picturesque +Spanish youth below. Most of the English party had gone sledging and +tobogganing. Mrs. Reffold had asked Bernardine to join them, but she had +refused. Mrs. Reffold's friends were anything but attractive to +Bernardine, although she liked Mrs. Reffold herself immensely. There was +no special reason why she should like her; she certainly had no cause to +admire her every-day behaviour, nor her neglect of her invalid husband, +who was passing away, uncared for in the present, and not likely to be +mourned for in the future. Mrs. Reffold was gay, careless, and beautiful. +She understood nothing about nursing, and cared less. So a trained nurse +looked after Mr. Reffold, and Mrs. Reffold went sledging. + +"Dear Wilfrid is so unselfish," she said. "He will not have me stay at +home. But I feel very selfish." That was her stock remark. Most people +answered her by saying: "Oh no, Mrs. Reffold, don't say that." But when +she made the remark to Bernardine, and expected the usual reply, +Bernardine said instead: "Mr. Reffold seems lonely." + +"Oh, he has a trained nurse, and she can read to him," said Mrs. Reffold +hurriedly. She seemed ruffled. + +"I had a trained nurse once," replied Bernardine; "and she could read; +but she would not. She said it hurt her throat." + +"Dear me, how very unfortunate for you," said Mrs. Reffold. "Ah, there +is Captain Graham calling. I must not keep the sledges waiting." + +That was a few days ago, but to-day, when Bernardine was playing chess +with the Swedish Professor, Mrs. Reffold came to her. There was a +curious mixture of shyness and abandon in Mrs. Reffold's manner. + +"Miss Holme," she said, "I have thought of such a splendid idea. Will +you go and see Mr. Reffold this afternoon? That would be a nice little +change for him." + +Bernardine smiled. + +"If you wish it," she answered. + +Mrs. Reffold nodded and hastened away, and Bernardine continued her +game, and, having finished it, rose to go. + +The Reffolds were rich, and lived in a suite of apartments in the more +luxurious part of the Kurhaus. + +Bernardine knocked at the door, and the nurse came to open it. + +"Mrs. Reffold asks me to visit Mr. Reffold," Bernardine said; and the +nurse showed her into the pleasant sitting-room. + +Mr. Reffold was lying on the sofa. He looked up as Bernardine came in, +and a smile of pleasure spread over his wan face. + +"I don't know whether I intrude," said Bernardine; "but Mrs. Reffold +said I might come to see you." + +Mr. Reffold signed to the nurse to withdraw. + +She had never before spoken to him. She had often seen him lying by +himself in the sunshine. + +"Are you paid for coming to me?" asked eagerly. + +The words seemed rude enough, but there was no rudeness in the manner. + +"No, I am not paid," she said gently; and then she took a chair and sat +near him. + +"Ah, that's well!" he said, with a sigh of relief "I'm so tired of paid +service. To know that things are done for me because a certain amount of +francs are given so that those things may be done--well, one gets weary +of it; that's all!" + +There was bitterness in every word he spoke. "I lie here," he said, +"and the loneliness of it--the loneliness of it!" + +"Shall I read to you?" she asked kindly. She did not know what to say +to him. + +"I want to talk first," he replied. "I want to talk first to some one +who is not paid for talking to me. I have often watched you, and +wondered who you were. Why do you look so sad? No one is waiting for +you to die?" + +"Don't talk like that!" she said; and she bent over him and arranged +the cushions for him more comfortably. He looked just like a great lank +tired child. + +"Are you one of my wife's friends?" he asked. + +"I don't suppose I am," she answered gently; "but I like her, all the +same. Indeed, I like her very much. And I think her beautiful!" + +"Ah, she is beautiful!" he said eagerly. "Doesn't she look splendid in +her furs? By Jove, you are right! She is a beautiful woman. I am proud +of her!" + +Then the smile faded from his face. + +"Beautiful," he said half to himself, "but hard." + +"Come now," said Bernardine; "you are surrounded with books and +newspapers. What shall I read to you?" + +"No one reads what I want," he answered peevishly. "My tastes are not +their tastes. I don't suppose you would care to read what I want to +hear!" + +"Well," she said cheerily, "try me. Make your choice." + +"Very well, the _Sporting and Dramatic_," he said. "Read every word of +that. And about that theatrical divorce case. And every word of that +too. Don't you skip, and cheat me." + +She laughed and settled herself down to amuse him. And he listened +contentedly. + +"That is something like literature," he said once or twice. "I can +understand papers of that sort going like wild-fire." + +When he was tired of being read to, she talked to him in a manner that +would have astonished the Disagreeable Man: not of books, nor learning, +but of people she had met and of Places she had seen; and there was fun +in everything she said. She knew London well, and she could tell him +about the Jewish and the Chinese quarters, and about her adventures in +company with a man who took her here, there, and everywhere. + +She made him some tea, and she cheered the poor fellow as he had not +been cheered for months. + +"You're just a little brick," he said, when she was leaving. Then once +more he added eagerly: + +"And you're not to be paid, are you?" + +"Not a single _sou_!" she laughed. "What a strange idea of yours!" + +"You are not offended?" he said anxiously. "But you can't think what a +difference it makes to me. You are not offended?" + +"Not in the least!" she answered. "I know quite well how you mean it. +You want a little kindness with nothing at the back of it. Now, +good-bye!" + +He called her when she was outside the door. + +"I say, will you come again soon?" + +"Yes, I will come to-morrow." + +"Do you know you've been a little brick. I hope I haven't tired you. +You are only a bit of a thing yourself. But, by Jove, you know how to +put a fellow in a good temper!" + +When Mrs. Reffold went down to _table-d'hôte_ that night, she met +Bernardine on the stairs, and stopped to speak with her. + +"We've had a splendid afternoon," she said; "and we've arranged to go +again to-morrow at the same time. Such a pity you don't come! Oh, by +the way, thank you for going to see my husband. I hope he did not tire +you. He is a little querulous, I think. He so enjoyed your visit. Poor +fellow! it is sad to see him so ill, isn't it?" + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +BERNARDINE PREACHES. + + +AFTER this, scarcely a day passed but Bernardine went to see Mr. Reffold. +The most inexperienced eye could have known that he was becoming rapidly +worse. Marie, the chambermaid, knew it, and spoke of it frequently to +Bernardine. + +"The poor lonely fellow!" she said, time after time. + +Every one, except Mrs. Reffold, seemed to recognize that Mr. Reffold's +days were numbered. Either she did not or would not understand. She made +no alteration in the disposal of her time: sledging parties and skating +picnics were the order of the day; she was thoroughly pleased with +herself, and received the attentions of her admirers as a matter of +course. The Petershof climate had got into her head; and it is a +well-known fact that this glorious air has the effect on some people of +banishing from their minds all inconvenient notions of duty and devotion, +and all memory of the special object of their sojourn in Petershof. The +coolness and calmness with which such people ignore their +responsibilities, or allow strangers to assume them, would be an +occasion for humour, if it were not an opportunity for indignation: +though indeed it would take a very exceptionally sober-minded spectator +not to get some fun out of the blissful self-satisfaction and +unconsciousness which characterize the most negligent of 'caretakers.' + +Mrs. Reffold was not the only sinner in this respect. It would have been +interesting to get together a tea-party of invalids alone, and set the +ball rolling about the respective behaviours of their respective friends. +Not a pleasing chronicle: no very choice pages to add to the book of real +life; still, valuable items in their way, representative of the actual as +opposed to the ideal. In most instances there would have been ample +testimony to that cruel monster, known as Neglect. + +Bernardine spoke once to the Disagreeable Man on this subject. She spoke +with indignation, and he answered with indifference, shrugging his +shoulders. + +"These things occur," he said "It is not that they are worse here than +everywhere else; it is simply that they are together in an accumulated +mass, and, as such, strike us with tremendous force. I myself am +accustomed to these exhibitions of selfishness and neglect. I should be +astonished if they did not take place. Don't mix yourself up with +anything. If people are neglected, they _are_ neglected, and there is +the end of it. To imagine that you or I are going to do any good by +filling up the breach, is simply an insanity leading to unnecessarily +disagreeable consequences. I know you go to see Mr. Reffold. Take my +advice, and keep away." + +"You speak like a Calvinist," she answered, rather ruffled, "with the +quintessence of self-protectiveness; and I don't believe you mean a +word you say." + +"My dear young woman," he said, "we are not living in a poetry book +bound with gilt edges. We are living in a paper-backed volume of prose. +Be sensible. Don't ruffle yourself on account of other people. Don't +even trouble to criticize them; it is only a nuisance to yourself. All +this simply points back to my first suggestion: fill up your time with +some hobby, cheese-mites or the influenza bacillus, and then you will +be quite content to let people be neglected, lonely, and to die. You +will look upon it as an ordinary and natural process." + +She waved her hand as though to stop him. + +"There are days," she said, "when I can't bear to talk with you. And +this is one of them." + +"I am sorry," he answered, quite gently for him. And he moved away from +her, and started for his usual lonely walk. + +Bernardine turned home, intending to go to see Mr. Reffold. He had become +quite attached to her, and looked forward eagerly to her visits. He said +her voice was gentle and her manner quiet; there was no bustling vitality +about her to irritate his worn nerves. He was probably an empty-headed, +stupid fellow; but it was none the less sad to see him passing away. + +He called her 'Little Brick.' He said that no other epithet suited her +so exactly. He was quite satisfied now that she was not paid for coming +to see him. As for the reading, no one could read the _Sporting and +Dramatic News_ and the _Era_ so well as Little Brick. Sometimes he +spoke with her about his wife, but only in general terms of bitterness, +and not always complainingly. She listened and said nothing. + +"I'm a chap that wants very little," he said once. "Those who want +little, get nothing." + +That was all he said, but Bernardine knew to whom he referred. + +To-day, as Bernardine was on her way back to the Kurhaus, she was +thinking constantly of Mrs. Reffold, and wondering whether she ought to +be made to realize that her husband was becoming rapidly worse. Whilst +engrossed with this thought, a long train of sledges and toboggans +passed her. The sound of the bells and the noisy merriment made her look +up, and she saw beautiful Mrs. Reffold amongst the pleasure-seekers. + +"If only I dared tell her now," said Bernardine to herself, "loudly and +before them all!" + +Then a more sensible mood came over her. "After all, it is not my +affair," she said. + +And the sledges passed away out of hearing. + +When Bernardine sat with Mr. Reffold that afternoon she did not mention +that she had seen his wife. He coughed a great deal, and seemed to be +worse than usual, and complained of fever. But he liked to have her, +and would not hear of her going. + +"Stay," he said. "It is not much of a pleasure to you, but it is a great +pleasure to me." + +There was an anxious look on his face, such a look as people wear when +they wish to ask some question of great moment, but dare not begin. + +At last he seemed to summon up courage. + +"Little Brick," he said, in a weak low voice, "I have something on my +mind. You won't laugh, I know. You're not the sort. I know you're clever +and thoughtful, and all that; you could tell me more than all the +parsons put together. I know you're clever; my wife says so. She says +only a very clever woman would wear such boots and hats!" + +Bernardine smiled. + +"Well," she said kindly, "tell me." + +"You must have thought a good deal, I suppose," he continued, "about +life and death, and that sort of thing. I've never thought at all. Does +it matter, Little Brick? It's too late now. I can't begin to think. But +speak to me; tell me what you think. Do you believe we get another +chance, and are glad to behave less like curs and brutes? Or is it all +ended in that lonely little churchyard here? I've never troubled about +these things before, but now I know I am so near that gloomy little +churchyard--well, it makes me wonder. As for the Bible, I never cared +to read it, I was never much of a reader, though I've got through two +or three firework novels and sporting stories. Does it matter, Little +Brick?" + +"How do I know?" she said gently. "How does any one know? People say +they know; but it is all a great mystery--nothing but a mystery. +Everything that we say, can be but a guess. People have gone mad over +their guessing, or they have broken their hearts. But still the mystery +remains, and we cannot solve it." + +"If you don't know anything, Little Brick," he said, "at least tell me +what you think: and don't be too learned; remember I'm only a brainless +fellow." + +He seemed to be waiting eagerly for her answer. + +"If I were you," she said, "I should not worry. Just make up your mind +to do better when you get another chance. One can't do more than that. +That is what I shall think of: that God will give each one of us another +chance, and that each one of us will take it and do better--I and you +and every one. So there is no need to fret over failure, when one hopes +one may be allowed to redeem that failure later on. Besides which, life +is very hard. Why, we ourselves recognize that. If there be a God, some +Intelligence greater than human intelligence, he will understand better +than ourselves that life is very hard and difficult, and he will be +astonished not _because we are not better, but because we are not +worse_. At least, that would be my notion of a God. I should not worry, +if I were you. Just make up your mind to do better if you get the +chance, and be content with that." + +"If that is what you think, Little Brick," he answered, "it is quite +good enough for me. And it does not matter about prayers and the Bible, +and all that sort of thing?" + +"I don't think it matters," she said. "I never have thought such things +mattered. What does matter, is to judge gently, and not to come down +like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings. Who are we, any of us, +that we should be hard on others?" + +"And not come down like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings," he +repeated slowly. "I wonder if I have ever judged gently." + +"I believe you have," she answered. + +He shook his head. + +"No," he said; "I have been a paltry fellow. I have been lying here, +and elsewhere too, eating my heart away with bitterness, until you came. +Since then I have sometimes forgotten to feel bitter. A little kindness +does away with a great deal of bitterness." + +He turned wearily on his side. + +"I think I could sleep, Little Brick," he said, almost in a whisper. +"I want to dream about your sermon. And I'm not to worry, am I?" + +"No," she answered, as she stepped noiselessly across the room; "you +are not to worry." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT. + + +ONE specially fine morning a knock came at Bernardine's door. She +opened it, and found Robert Allitsen standing there, trying to recover +his breath. + +"I am going to Loschwitz, a village about twelve miles off," he said. +"And I have ordered a sledge. Do you care to come too?" + +"If I may pay my share," she said. + +"Of course," he answered; "I did not suppose you would like to be paid +for any better than I should like to pay for you." + +Bernardine laughed. + +"When do we start?" she asked. + +"Now," he answered. "Bring a rug, and also that shawl of yours which is +always falling down, and come at once without any fuss. We shall be out +for the whole day. What about Mrs. Grundy? We could manage to take her +if you wished, but she would not be comfortable sitting amongst the +photographic apparatus, and I certainly should not give up my seat to +her." + +"Then leave her at home," said Bernardine cheerily. + +And so they settled it. + +In less than a quarter of an hour they had started; and Bernardine +leaned luxuriously back to enjoy to the full her first sledge-drive. + +It was all new to her: the swift passing through the crisp air without +any sensation of motion; the sleepy tinkling of the bells on the horses' +heads; the noiseless cutting through of the snow-path. + +All these weeks she had known nothing of the country, and now she found +herself in the snow fairy-land of which the Disagreeable Man had often +spoken to her. Around, vast plains of untouched snow, whiter than any +dream of whiteness, jewelled by the sunshine with priceless diamonds, +numberless as the sands of the sea. The great pines bearing their burden +of snow patiently; others, less patient, having shaken themselves free +from what the heavens had sent them to bear. And now the streams, +flowing on reluctantly over ice-coated rocks, and the ice cathedrals +formed by the icicles between the rocks. + +And always the same silence, save for the tinkling of the horses' bells. + +On the heights the quaint chalets, some merely huts for storing wood; on +others, farms, or the homes of peasants; some dark brown, almost black, +betraying their age; others of a paler hue, showing that the sun had not +yet mellowed them into a deep rich colour. And on all alike, the fringe +of icicles. A wonderful white world. + +It was a long time before Bernardine even wished to speak. This +beautiful whiteness may become monotonous after a time, but there is +something very awe-inspiring about it, something which catches the soul +and holds it. + +The Disagreeable Man sat quietly by her side. Once or twice he bent +forward to protect the camera when the sledge gave a lurch. + +After some time they met a procession of sledges laden with timber; +and August, the driver, and Robert Allitsen exchanged some fun and +merriment with the drivers in their quaint blue smocks. The noise of +the conversation, and the excitement of getting past the sledges, +brought Bernardine back to speech again. + +"I have never before enjoyed anything so much," she said. + +"So you have found your tongue," he said. "Do you mind talking a little +now? I feel rather lonely." + +This was said in such a pathetic, aggrieved tone, that Bernardine +laughed and looked at her companion. His face wore an unusually bright +expression. He was evidently out to enjoy himself. + +"_You_ talk," she said; "and tell me all about the country." + +And he told her what he knew, and, amongst other things, about the +avalanches. He was able to point out where some had fallen the previous +year. He stopped in the middle of his conversation to tell her to put up +her umbrella. + +"I can't trouble to hold it for you," he said; "but I don't mind opening +it. The sun is blazing to-day, and you will get your eyes bad if you are +not careful. That would be a pity, for you seem to me rather better +lately." + +"What a confession for you to make of any one!" said she. + +"Oh, I don't mean to say that you will ever get well," he added grimly. +"You seem to have pulled yourself in too many directions for that. You +have tried to be too alive; and, now you are obliged to join the genus +cabbage." + +"I am certainly less ill than I was when I first came," she said; "and I +feel in a better frame of mind altogether. I am learning a good deal in +sad Petershof." + +"That is more than I have done," he answered. + +"Well, perhaps you teach instead," she said. "You have taught me several +things. Now, go on telling me about the country people. You like them?" + +"I love them," he said simply. "I know them well, and they know me. You +see I have been in this district so long now, and have walked about so +much, that the very wood cutters know me; and the drivers give me lifts +on their piles of timber." + +"You are not surly with the poor people, then?" said Bernardine; "though +I must say I cannot imagine you being genial. Were you ever genial, I +wonder?" + +"I don't think that has ever been laid to my charge," he answered. + +The time passed away pleasantly. The Disagreeable Man was scarcely +himself to-day; or was it that he was more like himself? He seemed in a +boyish mood; he made fun out of nothing, and laughed with such young +fresh laughter, that even August, the grave blue-spectacled driver, was +moved to mirth. As for Bernardine, she had to look at Robert Allitsen +several times to be sure that he was the same Robert Allitsen she had +known two hours ago in Petershof. But she made no remark, and showed no +surprise, but met his merriness half way. No one could be a cheerier +companion than herself when she chose. + +At last they arrived at Loschwitz. The sledge wound its way through the +sloshy streets of the queer little village, and finally drew up in front +of the Gasthaus. It was a black sunburnt châlet, with green shutters, +and steps leading up to a green balcony. A fringe of sausages hung from +the roof; red bedding was scorching in the sunshine; three cats were +sunning themselves on the steps; a young woman sat in the green balcony +knitting. There were some curious inscriptions on the walls of the +châlet, and the date was distinctly marked, "1670." + +An old woman over the way sat in her doorway spinning. She looked up as +the sledge stopped before the Gasthaus; but the young woman in the green +balcony went on knitting, and saw nothing. + +A buxom elderly Hausfrau, came out to greet the guests. She wore a +naturally kind expression on her old face, but when she saw who the +gentleman was, the kindness positive increased to kindness superlative. + +She first retired and called out: + +"Liza, Fritz, Liza, Trüdchen, come quickly!" + +Then she came back, and cried: + +"Herr Allitsen, what a surprise!" + +She shook his hand times without number, greeted Bernardine with +motherly tenderness, and interspersed all her remarks with frantic +cries of "Liza, Fritz, Trüdchen, make haste!" + +She became very hot and excited, and gesticulated violently. + +All this time the young woman sat knitting, but not looking up. She +had been beautiful, but her face was worn now, and her eyes had that +vacant stare which betokened the vacant mind. + +The mother whispered to Robert Allitsen: + +"She notices no one now; she sits there always waiting." + +Tears came into the kind old eyes. + +Robert Allitsen went and bent down to the young woman, and held out +his hand. + +"Catharina," he said gently. + +She looked up then, and saw him, and recognized him. + +Then the sad face smiled a welcome. + +He sat near her, and took her knitting in his hand, pretending to +examine what she had done, chatting to her quietly all the time. He +asked her what she had been doing with herself since he had last seen +her, and she said: + +"Waiting. I am always waiting." + +He knew that she referred to her lover, who had been lost in an +avalanche the eve before their wedding morning. That was four years ago, +but Catharina was still waiting. Allitsen remembered her as a bright +young girl, singing in the Gasthaus, waiting cheerfully on the guests: +a bright gracious presence. No one could cook trout as she could; many a +dish of trout had she served up for him. And now she sat in the sunshine, +knitting and waiting, scarcely ever looking up. That was her life. + +"Catharina," he said, as he gave her back her knitting, "do you remember +how you used to cook me the trout?" + +Another smile passed over her face. Yes, she remembered. + +"Will you cook me some to-day?" + +She shook her head, and returned to her knitting. + +Bernardine watched the Disagreeable Man with amazement. She could not +have believed that his manner could be so tender and kindly. The old +mother standing near her whispered: + +"He was always so good to us all; we love him, every one of us. When +poor Catharina was betrothed five years ago, it was to Herr Allitsen we +first told the good news. He has a wonderful way about him--just look at +him with Catharina now. She has not noticed any one for months, but she +knows him, you see." + +At that moment the other members of the household came: Liza, Fritz, and +Trüdchen; Liza, a maiden of nineteen, of the homely Swiss type; Fritz, a +handsome lad of fourteen; and Trüdchen, just free from school, with her +school-satchel swung on her back. There was no shyness in their greeting; +the Disagreeable Man was evidently an old and much-loved friend, and +inspired confidence, not awe. Trüdchen fumbled in his coat pocket, and +found what she expected to find there, some sweets, which she immediately +began to eat, perfectly contented and self-satisfied. She smiled and +nodded at Robert Allitsen, as though to reassure him that the sweets +were not bad, and that she was enjoying them. + +"Liza will see to lunch," said the old mother. "You shall have some +mutton cutlets and some _forellen_. But before she goes, she has +something to tell you." + +"I am betrothed to Hans," Liza said, blushing. + +"I always knew you were fond of Hans," said the Disagreeable Man. +"He is a good fellow, Liza, and I'm glad you love him. But haven't you +just teased him!" + +"That was good for him," Liza said brightly. + +"Is he here to-day?" Robert Allitsen asked. + +Liza nodded. + +"Then I shall take your photographs," he said. + +While they had been speaking, Catharina rose from her seat, and passed +into the house. + +Her mother followed her, and watched her go into the kitchen. + +"I should like to cook the _forellen_," she said very quietly. + +It was months since she had done anything in the house. The old mother's +heart beat with pleasure. + +"Catharina, my best loved child!" she whispered; and she gathered the +poor suffering soul near to her. + +In about half an hour the Disagreeable Man and Bernardine sat down to +their meal. Robert Allitsen had ordered a bottle of Sassella, and he was +just pouring it out when Catharina brought in the _forellen_. + +"Why, Catharina," he said, "you don't mean you've cooked them? Then they +will be good!" She smiled, and seemed pleased, and then went out of the +room. + +Then he told Bernardine her history, and spoke with such kindness and +sympathy that Bernardine was again amazed at him. But she made no remark. + +"Catharina was always sorry that I was ill," he said. "When I stayed +here, as I have done, for weeks together, she used to take every care +of me. And it was a kindly sympathy which I could not resent. In those +days I was suffering more than I have done for a long time now, and she +was very pitiful. She could not bear to hear me cough. I used to tell +her that she must learn not to feel. But you see she did not learn her +lesson, for when this trouble came on her, she felt too much. And you +see what she is." + +They had a cheery meal together, and then Bernardine talked with the +old mother, whilst the Disagreeable Man busied himself with his camera. +Liza was for putting on her best dress, and doing her hair in some +wonderful way. But he would not hear of such a thing. But seeing that +she looked disappointed, he gave in, and said she should be photographed +just as she wished; and off she ran to change her attire. She went up to +her room a picturesque, homely working girl, and she came down a tidy, +awkward-looking young woman, with all her finery on, and all her charm +off. + +The Disagreeable Man grunted, but said nothing. + +Then Hans arrived, and then came the posing, which caused much +amusement. They both stood perfectly straight, just as a soldier stands +before presenting arms. Both faces were perfectly expressionless. The +Disagreeable Man was in despair. + +"Look happy!" he entreated. + +They tried to smile, but the anxiety to do so produced an expression of +melancholy which was too much for the gravity of the photographer. He +laughed heartily. + +"Look as though you weren't going to be photographed," he suggested. +"Liza, for goodness' sake look as though you were baking the bread; +and Hans, try and believe that you are doing some of your beautiful +carving." + +The patience of the photographer was something wonderful. At last he +succeeded in making them appear at their ease. And then he told Liza +that she must go and change her dress, and be photographed now in the +way he wished. She came down again, looking fifty times prettier in her +working clothes. + +Now he was in his element. He arranged Liza and Hans on the sledge of +timber, which had then driven up, and made a picturesque group of them +all: Hans and Liza sitting side by side on the timber, the horses +standing there so patiently after their long journey through the forests, +the driver leaning against his sledge smoking his long china pipe. + +"That will be something like a picture," he said to Bernardine, when the +performance was over. "Now I am going for about a mile's walk. Will you +come with me and see what I am going to photograph, or will you rest +here till I come back?" + +She chose the latter, and during his absence was shown the treasures +and possessions of a Swiss peasant's home. + +She was taken to see the cows in the stalls, and had a lecture given her +on the respective merits of Schneewitchen, a white cow, Kartoffelkuehen, +a dark brown one, and Röslein, the beauty of them all. Then she looked +at the spinning-wheel, and watched the old Hausfrau turn the treadle. +And so the time passed, Bernardine making, good friends of them all. +Catharina had returned to her knitting, and began working, and, as +before, not noticing any one. But Bernardine sat by her side, playing +with the cat, and after a time Catharina looked up at Bernardine's +little thin face, and, after some hesitation, stroked it gently with +her hand. + +"Fräulein is not strong," she said tenderly. "If Fräulein lived here, +I should take care of her." + +That was a remnant of Catharina's past. She had always loved everything +that was ailing and weakly. + +Her hand rested on Bernardine's hand. Bernardine pressed it in kindly +sympathy, thinking the while of the girl's past happiness and present +bereavement. + +"Liza is betrothed," she said, as though to herself. "They don't tell +me; but I know. I was betrothed once." + +She went on knitting. And that was all she said of herself. + +Then after a pause she said: + +"Fräulein is betrothed?" + +Bernardine smiled, and shook her head, and Catharina made no further +inquiries. But she looked up from her work from time to time, and seemed +pleased that Bernardine still stayed with her. At last the old mother +came to say that the coffee was ready, and Bernardine followed her into +the parlour. + +She watched Bernardine drinking the coffee, and finally poured herself +out a cup too. + +"This is the first time Herr Allitsen has ever brought a friend," she +said. "He has always been alone. Fräulein is betrothed to Herr Allitsen-- +is that so? Ah, I am glad. He is so good and, so kind." + +Bernardine stopped drinking her coffee. + +"No, I am not betrothed," she said cheerily. "We are just friends; and +not always that either. We quarrel." + +"All lovers do that," persisted Frau Steinhart triumphantly. + +"Well, you ask him yourself," said Bernardine, much amused. She had +never looked upon Robert Allitsen in that light before. "See, there +he comes!" + +Bernardine was not present at the court martial, but this was what +occurred. Whilst the Disagreeable Man was paying the reckoning, Frau +Steinhart said in her most motherly tones: + +"Fräulein is a very dear young lady: Herr Allitsen has made a wise +choice. He is betrothed at last!" + +The Disagreeable Man stopped counting out the money. + +"Stupid old Frau Steinhart!" he said good-naturedly. "People like myself +don't get betrothed. We get buried instead!" + +"Na, na!" she answered. "What a thing to say--and so unlike you too! +No, but tell me!" + +"Well, I am telling you the truth," he replied. "If you won't believe +me, ask Fräulein herself." + +"I have asked her," said Frau Steinhart, "and she told me to ask you." + +The Disagreeable Man was much amused. He had never thought of Bernardine +in that way. + +He paid the bill, and then did something which rather astonished Frau +Steinhart, and half convinced her. + +He took the bill to Bernardine, told her the amount of her share, and +she repaid him then and there. + +There was a twinkle in her eye as she looked up at him. Then the +composure of her features relaxed, and she laughed. + +He laughed too, but no comment was made upon the episode. Then began +the goodbyes, and the preparations for the return journey. + +Bernardine bent over Catharina, and kissed her sad face. + +"Fräulein will come again?" she whispered eagerly. + +And Bernardine promised. There was something in Bernardine's manner +which had won the poor girl's fancy: some unspoken sympathy, some quiet +geniality. + +Just as they were starting, Frau Steinhart whispered to Robert Allitsen: + +"It is a little disappointing to me, Herr Allitsen. I did so hope you +were betrothed." + +August, the blue-spectacled driver, cracked his whip, and off the horses +started homewards. + +For some time there was no conversation between the two occupants of the +sledge. Bernardine, was busy thinking about the experiences of the day, +and the Disagreeable Man seemed in a brown study. At last he broke the +silence by asking her how she liked his friends, and what she thought +of Swiss home life; and so the time passed pleasantly. + +He looked at her once, and said she seemed cold. + +"You are not warmly clothed," he said. "I have an extra coat. Put it on; +don't make a fuss but do so at once. I know the climate and you don't." + +She obeyed, and said she was all the cosier for it. As they were nearing +Petershof, he said half-nervously: + +"So my friends took you for my betrothed. I hope you are not offended." + +"Why should I be?" she said frankly. "I was only amused, because there +never were two people less lover-like than you and I are." + +"No, that's quite true," he replied, in a tone of voice which betokened +relief. + +"So that I really don't see that we need concern ourselves further in +the matter," she added wishing to put him quite at his ease. "I'm not +offended, and you are not offended, and there's an end of it." + +"You seem to me to be a very sensible young woman in some respects," the +Disagreeable Man remarked after a pause. He was now quite cheerful again, +and felt he could really praise his companion. "Although you have read +so much, you seem to me sometimes to take a sensible view of things. +Now, I don't want to be betrothed to you, any more than I suppose you +want to be betrothed to me. And yet we can talk quietly about the matter +without a scene. That would be impossible with most women." + +Bernardine laughed. "Well, I only know," she said cheerily, "that I have +enjoyed my day very much, and I'm much obliged to you for your +companionship. The fresh air, and the change of surroundings, will have +done me good." + +His reply was characteristic of him. + +"It is the least disagreeable day I have spent for many months," he said +quietly. + +"Let me settle with you for the sledge now," she said, drawing out her +purse, just as they came in sight of the Kurhaus. + +They settled money matters, and were quits. + +Then he helped her out of the sledge, and he stooped to pick up the +shawl she dropped. + +"Here is the shawl you are always dropping," he said. "You're rather +cold, aren't you? Here, come to the restaurant and have some brandy. +Don't make a fuss. I know what's the right thing for you!" + +She followed him to the restaurant, touched by his rough kindness. He +himself took nothing, but he paid for her brandy. + +That evening after _table-d'hôte_, or rather after he had finished his +dinner, he rose to go to his room as usual. He generally went off +without a remark. But to-night he said: + +"Good-night, and thank you for your companionship. It has been my +birthday to-day, and I've quite enjoyed it." + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +"IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE." + + +THERE was a suicide in the Kurhaus one afternoon. A Dutchman, Vandervelt, +had received rather a bad account of himself from the doctor a few days +previously, and in a fit of depression, so it was thought, he had put a +bullet through his head. It had occurred through Marie's unconscious +agency. She found him lying on his sofa when she went as usual to take +him his afternoon glass of milk. He asked her to give him a packet which +was on the top shelf of his cupboard. + +"Willingly," she said, and she jumped nimbly on the chair, and gave him +the case. + +"Anything more?" she asked kindly, as she watched him draw himself up +from the sofa. She thought at the time that he looked wild and strange; +but then, as she pathetically said afterwards, who did not look wild +and strange in the Kurhaus? + +"Yes," he said. "Here are five francs for you." + +She thought that rather unusual too; but five francs, especially coming +unexpectedly like that, were not to be despised, and Marie determined to +send them off to that Mutterli at home in the nut-brown châlet at Grüsch. + +So she thanked Mynheer van Vandervelt, and went off to her pantry to +drink some cold tea which the English people had left, and to clean the +lamps. Having done that, and knowing that the matron was busily engaged +carrying on a flirtation with a young Frenchman, Marie took out her +writing materials, and began a letter to her old mother. These peasants +know how to love each other, and some of them know how to tell each +other too. Marie knew. And she told her mother of the gifts she was +bringing home, the little nothings given her by the guests. + +She was very happy writing this letter: the little nut-brown home rose +before her. + +"Ach!" she said, "how I long to be home!" + +And then she put down her pen, and sighed. + +"Ach!" she said, "and when I'm there, I shall long to be here. _Da wo +ich nicht bin, da ist das Gluck_." + +Marie was something of a philosopher. + +Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, followed by a second report. +She dashed out of her little pantry, and ran in the direction of the +sound. She saw Wärli in the passage. He was looking scared, and his +letters had fallen to the ground. He pointed to No. 54. + +It was the Dutchman's room. + +Help arrived. The door was forced open, and Vandervelt was found dead. +The case from which he had taken the pistol was lying on the sofa. When +Marie saw that, she knew that she had been an unconscious accomplice. +Her tender heart overflowed with grief. + +Whilst others were lifting him up, she leaned her head against the wall, +and sobbed. + +"It was my fault, it was my fault!" she cried. "I gave him the case. +But how was I to know?" + +They took her away, and tried to comfort her, but it was all in vain. + +"And he gave me five francs," she sobbed. "I shudder to think of them." + +It was all in vain that Wärli gave her a letter for which she had been +longing for many days. + +"It is from your _Mutterli_," he said, as he put it into her hands. "I +give it willingly. I don't like the look of one or two of the letters +I have to give you, Mariechen. That Hans writes to you. Confound him!" + +But nothing could cheer her. Wärli went away shaking his curly head +sadly, shocked at the death of the Dutchman, and shocked at Marie's +sorrow. And the cheery little postman did not do much whistling that +evening. + +Bernardine heard of Marie's trouble, and rang for her to come. Marie +answered the bell, looking the picture of misery. Her kind face was +tear-stained, and her only voice was a sob. + +Bernardine drew the girl to her. + +"Poor old Marie," she whispered. "Come and cry your kind heart out, and +then you will feel better. Sit by me here, and don't try to speak. And +I will make you some tea in true English fashion, and you must take it +hot, and it will do you good." + +The simple sisterly kindness and silent sympathy soothed Marie after a +time. The sobs ceased, and the tears also. And Marie put her hand in her +pocket and gave Bernardine the five francs. + +"Fräulein Holme, I hate them." she said. "I could never keep them. How +could I send them now to my old mother? They would bring her ill luck-- +indeed they would." + +The matter was solved by Bernardine in a masterly fashion. She suggested +that Marie should buy flowers with the money, and put them on the +Dutchman's coffin. This idea comforted Marie beyond Bernardine's most +sanguine expectations. + +"A beautiful tin wreath," she said several times. "I know the exact kind. +When my father died, we put one on his grave." + +That same evening, during _table-d'hôte_, Bernardine told the Disagreeable +Man the history of the afternoon. He had been developing photographs, +and had heard nothing. He seemed very little interested in her relation +of the suicide, and merely remarked: + +"Well, there's one person less in the world." + +"I think you make these remarks from habit," Bernardine said quietly, +and she went on with her dinner, attempting no further conversation with +him. She herself had been much moved by the sad occurrence; every one +in the Kurhaus was more or less upset; and there was a thoughtful, +anxious expression on more than one ordinarily thoughtless face. The +little French danseuse was quiet: the Portuguese ladies were decidedly +tearful, the vulgar German Baroness was quite depressed: the comedian at +the Belgian table ate his dinner in silence. In fact, there was a weight +pressing down on all. Was it really possible, thought Bernardine, that +Robert Allitsen was the only one there unconcerned and unmoved? She had +seen him in a different light amongst his friends, the country folk, +but it was just a glimpse which had not lasted long. The young- +heartedness, the geniality, the sympathy which had so astonished her +during their day's outing, astonished her still more by their total +disappearance. The gruffness had returned: or had it never been absent? +The lovelessness and leadenness of his temperament had once more +asserted themselves: or was it that they had never for one single day +been in the background? + +These thoughts passed through her mind as he sat next to her reading his +paper--that paper which he never passed on to any one. She hardened her +heart against him; there was no need for ill-health and disappointment +to have brought any one to a miserable state of indifference like that. +Then she looked at his wan face and frail form, and her heart softened +at once. At the moment when her heart softened to him, he astonished her +by handing her his paper. + +"Here is something to interest you," he said, "an article on Realism in +Fiction, or some nonsense like that. You needn't read it now. I don't +want the paper again.'' + +"I thought you never lent anything," she said, as she glanced at the +article, "much less gave it." + +"Giving and lending are not usually in my line," he replied. "I think I +told you once that I thought selfishness perfectly desirable and +legitimate, if one had made the one great sacrifice." + +"Yes," she said eagerly, "I have often wondered what you considered the +one great sacrifice." + +"Come out into the air," he answered, "and I will tell you." + +She went to put on her cloak and, hat, and found him waiting for her at +the top of the staircase. They passed out into the beautiful night: the +sky was radiantly bejewelled, the air crisp and cold, and harmless to do +ill. In the distance, the jodelling of some peasants. In the hotels, the +fun and merriment, side by side with the suffering and hopelessness. In +the deaconess's house, the body of the Dutchman. In God's heavens, God's +stars. + +Robert Allitsen and Bernardine walked silently for some time. + +"Well," she said, "now tell me." + +"The one great sacrifice," he said half to himself, "is the going on +living one's life for the sake of another, when everything that would +seem to make life acceptable has been wrenched away, not the pleasures, +but the duties, and the possibilities of expressing one's energies, +either in one direction or another: when, in fact, living is only a +long tedious dying. If one has made this sacrifice, everything else +may be forgiven." + +He paused a moment, and then continued: + +"I have made this sacrifice, therefore I consider I have done my part +without flinching. The greatest thing I had to give up, I gave up: my +death. More could not be required of any one!" + +He paused again, and Bernardine was silent from mere awe. + +"But freedom comes at last," he said, "and some day I shall be free. +When my mother dies, I shall be free. She is old. If I were to die, I +should break her heart, or, rather she would fancy that her heart was +broken. (And it comes to the same thing). And I should not like to give +her more grief than she has had. So I am just waiting, it may be months, +or weeks, or years. But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt +anything else, I have learnt how to wait. And then" . . . . + +Bernardine had unconsciously put her hand on his arm; her face was full +of suffering. + +"And then?" she asked, with almost painful eagerness. + +"And then I shall follow your Dutchman's example," he said deliberately. + +Bernardine's hand fell from the Disagreeable Man's arm. + +She shivered. + +"You are cold, you little thing," he said, almost tenderly for him. +"You are shivering." + +"Was I?" she said, with a short laugh. "I was wondering when you would +get your freedom, and whether you would use it in the fashion you now +intend!" + +"Why should there be any doubt?" he asked. + +"One always hopes there would be a doubt," she said, half in a whisper. + +Then he looked up, and saw all the pain on the little face. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN MAKES A LOAN. + + +THE Dutchman was buried in the little cemetery which faced the hospital. +Marie's tin wreath was placed on the grave. And there the matter ended. +The Kurhaus guests recovered from their depression: the German Baroness +returned to her buoyant vulgarity, the little danseuse to her busy +flirtations. The French Marchioness, celebrated in Parisian circles for +her domestic virtues, from which she was now taking a holiday, and a +very considerable holiday too, gathered her nerves together again and +took renewed pleasure in the society of the Russian gentleman. The +French Marchioness had already been requested to leave three other +hotels in Petershof; but it was not at all probable that the proprietors +of the Kurhaus would have presumed to measure Madame's morality or +immorality. The Kurhaus committee had a benign indulgence for humanity-- +provided of course that humanity had a purse--an indulgence which some +of the English hotels would not have done badly to imitate. There was a +story afloat concerning the English quarter, that a tired little English +lady, of no importance to look at, probably not rich, and probably not +handsome, came to the most respectable hotel in Petershof, thinking to +find there the peace and quiet which her weariness required. + +But no one knew who the little lady was, whence she had come, and why. +She kept entirely to herself, and was thankful for the luxury of +loneliness after some overwhelming sorrow. + +One day she was requested to go. The proprietor of the hotel was +distressed, but he could not do otherwise than comply with the demands +of his guests. + +"It is not known who you are, Mademoiselle," he said. "And you are not +approved of. You English are curious people. But what can I do? You +have a cheap room, and are a stranger to me. The others have expensive +apartments, and come year after year. You see my position, Mademoiselle? +I am sorry." + +So the little tired lady had to go. That was how the story went. It was +not known what became of her, but it was known that the English people +in the Kurhaus tried to persuade her to come to them. But she had lost +heart, and left in distress. + +This could not have happened in the Kurhaus, where all were received on +equal terms, those about whom nothing was known, and those about whom +too much was known. The strange mixture and the contrasts of character +afforded endless scope for observation and amusement, and Bernardine, +who was daily becoming more interested in her surroundings, felt that +she would have been sorry to have exchanged her present abode for the +English quarter. The amusing part of it was that the English people in +the Kurhaus were regarded by their compatriots in the English quarter +as sheep of the blackest dye! This was all the more ridiculous because +with two exceptions--firstly of Mrs. Reffold, who took nearly all her +pleasures with the American colony in the Grand Hotel; and secondly, +of a Scotch widow who had returned to Petershof to weep over her +husband's grave, but put away her grief together with her widow's +weeds, and consoled herself with a Spanish gentleman--with these two +exceptions, the little English community in the Kurhaus was most humdrum +and harmless, being occupied, as in the case of the Disagreeable Man, +with cameras and cheese-mites, or in other cases with the still more +engrossing pastime of taking care of one's ill-health, whether real or +fancied: but yet, an innocent hobby in itself and giving one absolutely +no leisure to do anything worse: a great recommendation for any pastime. + +This was not Bernardine's occupation: it was difficult to say what she +did with herself, for she had not yet followed Robert Allitsen's advice +and taken up some definite work: and the very fact that she had no such +wish, pointed probably to a state of health which forbade it. She, +naturally so keen and hard-working, was content to take what the hour +brought, and the hour brought various things: chess with the Swedish +professor, or Russian dominoes with the shrivelled-up little Polish +governess who always tried to cheat, and who clutched her tiny winnings +with precisely the same greediness shown by the Monte Carlo female +gamblers. Or the hour brought a stroll with the French danseuse and her +poodle, and a conversation about the mere trivialities of life, which a +year or two, or even a few months ago, Bernardine would have condemned +as beneath contempt, but, which were now taking their rightful place in +her new standard of importances. For some natures learn with greater +difficulty and after greater delay than others, that the real +importances of our existence are the nothingnesses of every-day life, +the nothingnesses which the philosopher in his study, reasoning about +and analysing human character, is apt to overlook; but which, +nevertheless, make him and every one else more of a human reality and +less of an abstraction. And Bernardine, hitherto occupied with so-called +intellectual pursuits, with problems of the study, of no value to the +great world outside the study, or with social problems of the great +world, great movements, and great questions, was now just beginning to +appreciate the value of the little incidents of that same great world. +Or the hour brought its own thoughts, and Bernardine found herself +constantly thinking of the Disagreeable Man: always in sorrow and always +with sympathy, and sometimes with tenderness. + +When he told her about the one sacrifice, she could have wished to wrap +him round with love and tenderness. If he could only have known it, he +had never been so near love as then. She had suffered so much herself, +and, with increasing weaknesses, had so wished to put off the burden of +the flesh, that her whole heart went out to him. + +Would he get his freedom, she wondered, and would he use it? Sometimes +when she was with him, she would look up to see whether she could read +the answer in his face; but she never saw any variation of expression +there, nothing to give her even a suggestion. But this she noticed: that +there was a marked variation in his manner, and that when he had been +rough in bearing, or bitter in speech, he made silent amends at the +earliest opportunity by being less rough and less bitter. She felt this +was no small concession on the part of the Disagreeable Man. + +He was particularly disagreeable on the day when the Dutchman was buried, +and so the following day when Bernardine met him in the little English +library, she was not surprised to find him almost kindly. + +He had chosen the book which she wanted, but he gave it up to her at once +without any grumbling, though Bernardine expected him to change his mind +before they left the library. + +"Well," he said, as they walked along together, "and have you recovered +from the death of the Dutchman?" + +"Have you recovered, rather let me ask?" she said. "You were in a horrid +mood last night." + +"I was feeling wretchedly ill," he said quietly. + +That was the first time he had ever alluded to his own health. + +"Not that there is any need to make an excuse," he continued, "for I do +not recognise that there is any necessity to consult one's surroundings, +and alter the inclination of one's mind accordingly. Still, as a matter +of fact, I felt very ill!" + +"And to-day?" she asked. + +"To-day I am myself again," he answered quickly: "that usual normal self +of mine, whatever that may mean. I slept well, and I dreamed of you. +I can't say that I had been thinking of you, because I had not. But I +dreamed that we were children together, and playmates. Now that was very +odd: because I was a lonely child, and never had any playmates." + +"And I was lonely too," said Bernardine. + +"Every one is lonely," he said, "but every one does not know it." + +"But now and again the knowledge comes like a revelation," she said, +"and we realise that we stand practically alone, out of any one's reach +for help or comfort. When you come to think of it, too, how little able +we are to explain ourselves. When you have wanted to say something which +was burning within you, have you not noticed on the face of the listener +that unmistakable look of non-comprehension, which throws you back on +yourself? That is one of the moments when the soul knows its own +loneliness!" + +Robert Allitsen looked up at her. + +"You little thing," he said, "you put things neatly sometimes. You have +felt, haven't you?" + +"I suppose so," she said. "But that is true of most people." + +"I beg your pardon," he answered, "most people neither think nor feel: +unless they think they have an ache, and then they feel it!" + +"I believe," said Bernardine, "that there is more thinking and feeling +than one generally supposes." + +"Well, I can't be bothered with that now," he said. "And you interrupted +me about my dream. That is an annoying habit you have." + +"Go on," she said. "I apologize!" + +"I dreamed we were children together, and playmates," he continued. "We +were not at all happy together, but still we were playmates. There was +nothing we did not quarrel about. You were disagreeable, and I was +spiteful. Our greatest dispute was over a Christmas-tree. And that was +odd, too, for I have never seen a Christmas-tree." + +"Well?" she said, for he had paused. "What a long time you take to tell +story." + +"You were not called Bernardine," he said. "You were called by some +ordinary sensible name. I don't remember what. But you were very +disagreeable. That I remember well. At last you disappeared, and I went +about looking for you. 'If I can find something to cause a quarrel,' +I said to myself, 'she will come back.' So I went and smashed your +doll's head. But you did not come back. Then I set on fire your doll's +house. But even that did not bring you back. Nothing brought you back. +That was my dream. I hope you are not offended. Not that it makes any +difference if you are." + +Bernardine laughed. + +"I am sorry that I should have been such an unpleasant playmate," she +said. "It was a good thing I did disappear." + +"Perhaps it was," he said. "There would have been a terrible scene about +that doll's head. An odd thing for me to dream about Christmas-trees and +dolls and playmates: especially when I went to sleep thinking about my +new camera." + +"You have a new camera?" she asked. + +"Yes," he answered, "and a beauty, too. Would you like to see it?" + +She expressed a wish to see it, and when they reached the Kurhaus, she +went with him up to his beautiful room, where he spent his time in the +company of his microscope and his chemical bottles and his photographic +possessions. + +"If you sit down and look at those photographs, I will make you some +tea," he said. "There is the camera, but please not to touch it until I +am ready to show it myself." + +She watched him preparing the tea; he did everything so daintily, this +Disagreeable Man. He put a handkerchief on the table, to serve for an +afternoon tea-cloth, and a tiny vase of violets formed the centre-piece. +He had no cups, but he polished up two tumblers, and no housemaid could +have been more particular, about their glossiness. Then he boiled the +water and made the tea. Once she offered to help him; but he shook his +head. + +"Kindly not to interfere." he said grimly. "No one can make tea better +than I can." + +After tea, they began the inspection of the new camera, and Robert +Allitsen showed her all the newest improvements. He did not seem to +think much of her intelligence, for he explained everything as though +he were talking to a child, until Bernardine rather lost patience. + +"You need not enter into such elaborate explanations," she suggested. +"I have a small amount of intelligence, though you do not seem to +detect it." + +He looked at her as one might look at an impatient child. + +"Kindly not to interrupt me," he replied mildly. "How very impatient you +are! And how restless! What must you have been like before you fell ill?" + +But he took the hint all the same, and shortened his explanations, and +as Bernardine was genuinely interested, he was well satisfied. From time +to time he looked at his old camera and at his companion, and from the +expression of unease on his face, it was evident that some contest was +going on in his mind. Twice he stood near his old camera, and turned +round to Bernardine intending to make some remark. Then he chanced his +mind, and walked abruptly to the other end of the room as though to seek +advice from his chemical bottles. Bernardine meanwhile had risen from +her chair, and was looking out of the window. + +"You have a lovely view," she said. "It must be nice to look at that +when you are tired of dissecting cheese-mites. All the same, I think +the white scenery gives one a great sense of sadness and loneliness." + +"Why do you speak always of loneliness?" he asked. + +"I have been thinking a good deal about it," she said. "When I was +strong and vigorous, the idea of loneliness never entered my mind. Now I +see how lonely most people are. If I believed in God as a Personal God, +I should be inclined to think that loneliness were part of his scheme: +so that the soul of man might turn to him and him alone." + +The Disagreeable Man was standing by his camera again: his decision was +made. + +"Don't think about those questions," he said kindly. "Don't worry and +fret too much about the philosophy of life. Leave philosophy alone, and +take to photography instead. Here, I will lend you my old camera." + +"Do you mean that?" she asked, glancing at him in astonishment. + +"Of course I mean it," he said. + +He looked remarkably pleased with himself, and Bernardine could not +help smiling. + +He looked just as a child looks when he has given up a toy to another +child, and is conscious that he has behaved himself rather well. + +"I am very much obliged to you," she said frankly. "I have had a great +wish to learn photography." + +"I might have lent my camera to you before, mightn't I?" he said +thoughtfully. + +"No," she answered. "There was not any reason." + +"No," he said, with a kind of relief, "there was not any reason. That +is quite true!" + +"When will you give me my first lesson?" she asked. "Perhaps, though, +you would like to wait a few days, in case you change your mind." + +"It takes me some time to make up my mind," he replied, "but I do not +change it. So I will give you your first lesson to-morrow. Only you +must not be impatient. You must consent to be taught; you cannot +possibly know everything!" + +They fixed a time for the morrow, and Bernardine went off with the +camera; and meeting Marie on the staircase, confided to her the piece +of good fortune which had befallen her. + +"See what Herr Allitsen has lent me, Marie!" she said. + +Marie raised her hands in astonishment. + +"Who would have thought such a thing of Herr Allitsen?" said Marie. +"Why, he does not like lending me a match." + +Bernardine laughed and passed on to her room. + +And the Disagreeable Man meanwhile was cutting a new scientific book +which had just come from England. He spent a good deal of money on +himself. He was soon absorbed in this book, and much interested in the +diagrams. + +Suddenly he looked up to the corner where the old camera had stood, +before Bernardine took it away in triumph. + +"I hope she won't hurt that camera," he said a little uneasily. +"I am half sorry that" . . . + +Then a kinder mood took possession of him. + +"Well, at least it will keep her from fussing and fretting and thinking. +Still, I hope she won't hurt it." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +A DOMESTIC SCENE. + + +ONE afternoon when Mrs. Reffold came to say good-bye to her husband +before going out for the usual sledge-drive, he surprised her by his +unwonted manner. + +"Take your cloak off," he said sharply. "You cannot go for your drive +this afternoon. You don't often give up your time to me; you must do so +to-day." + +She was so astonished, that she at once laid aside her cloak and hat, +and touched the bell. + +"Why are you ringing?" Mr. Reffold asked testily. + +"To send a message of excuse," she answered, with provoking cheerfulness. + +She scribbled something on a card, and gave it to the servant who +answered the bell. + +"Now," she said, with great sweetness of manner. And she sat down beside +him, drew out her fancy-work, and worked away contentedly. She would +have made a charming study of a devoted wife soothing a much-loved +husband in his hours of sickness and weariness. + +"Do you mind giving up your drive?" he asked. + +"Not in the least," she replied. "I am rather tired of sledging." + +"You soon get tired of things, Winifred," he said. + +"Yes, I do," was the answer. "I am so easily bored. I am quite tired of +this place." + +"You will have to stay here a little longer," he said, "and then you +will be free to go where you choose. I wish I could die quicker for you, +Winifred." + +Mrs. Reffold looked up from her embroidery. + +"You will get better soon," she said. "You are better." + +"Yes, you've helped a good deal to make me better," he said bitterly. +"You have been a most unselfish person haven't you? You have given me +every care and attention, haven't you?" + +"You seem to me in a very strange mood to-day," she said, looking +puzzled. "I don't understand you." + +Mr. Reffold laughed. + +"Poor Winifred," he said. "If it is ever your lot to fall ill and be +neglected, perhaps then you will think of me." + +"Neglected?" she said, in some surprise. "What do you mean? I thought +you had everything you wanted. The nurse brought excellent testimonials. +I was careful in the choice of her. You have never complained before." + +He turned wearily on his side, and made no answer. And for some time +there was silence between them. + +Then he watched her as she bent over her embroidery. + +"You are very beautiful, Winifred," he said quietly, "but you are a +selfish woman. Has it ever struck you that you are selfish?" + +Mrs. Reffold gave no reply, but she made a resolution to write to her +particular friend at Cannes and confide to her how very trying her +husband had become. + +"I suppose it is part of his illness," she thought meekly. "But it is +hard to have to bear it." + +And Mrs. Reffold pitied herself profoundly. She stitched sincere pity +for herself into that piece of embroidery. + +"I remember you telling me," continued Mr. Reffold, "that sick people +repelled you. That was when I was strong and vigorous. But since I have +been ill, I have often recalled your words. Poor Winifred! You did not +think then that you would have an invalid husband on your hands. Well, +you were not intended for sick-room nursing, and you have not tried to +be what you were not intended for. Perhaps you were right, after all." + +"I don't know why you should be so unkind to-day," Mrs. Reffold said, +with pathetic patience. "I can't understand you. You have never spoken +like this before." + +"No," he said; "but I have thought like this before. All the hours you +have left me lonely, I have been thinking like this, with my heart full +of bitterness against you, until that little girl, that Little Brick +came along." + +After that, it was some time before he spoke. He was thinking of his +Little Brick, and of all the pleasant hours he had spent with her, and +of the kind, wise words she had spoken to him, an ignorant fellow. She +was something like a companion. + +So he went on thinking, and Mrs. Reffold went on embroidering. She was +now feeling herself to be almost a heroine. It is a very easy matter to +make oneself into a heroine or a martyr. Selfish, neglectful? What did +he mean? Oh, it was just part of his illness. She must go on bearing her +burden as she had borne it these many months. Her rightful position was +in a London ball-room. Instead of which, she had to be shut up in an +Alpine village: a hard lot. It was little enough pleasure she could get, +and apparently her husband grudged her that. His manner to her this +afternoon was not such as to encourage her to stay in from her drive on +another occasion. To-morrow she would go sledging. + +That flash of light which reveals ourselves to ourselves had not yet +come to Mrs. Reffold. + +She looked at her husband, and thought from his restfulness that he had +gone to sleep, and she was just beginning to write to that particular +friend at Cannes, to tell her what a trial she was undergoing, when +Mr. Reffold called her to his side. + +"Winifred," he said gently, and there was tenderness in his voice, and +love written on his face, "Winifred, I am sorry if I have been sharp to +you. Little Brick says we mustn't come down like sledge-hammers on each +other; and that is what I have been doing this afternoon. Perhaps I have +been hard: I am such an illness to myself, that I must be an illness to +others too. And you weren't meant for this sort of thing--were you? You +are a bright beautiful creature, and I am an unfortunate dog not to have +been able to make you happier. I know I am irritable. I can't help +myself, indeed I can't." + +This great long fellow was so yearning for love and sympathy. + +What would it not have been to him if she had gathered him into her +arms, and soothed all his irritability and suffering with her love? + +But she pressed his hand, and kissed him lightly on the cheek, and told +him that he had been a little sharp, but that she quite understood, and +that she was not hurt. Her charm of manner gave him some satisfaction; +and when Bernardine came in a few minutes later, she found Mr. Reffold +looking happier and more contented than she had ever seen him. +Mrs. Reffold, who was relieved at the interruption, received Bernardine +warmly, though there was a certain amount of shyness which she had never +been able to conquer in Bernardine's presence. There was something in +the younger woman which quelled Mrs. Reffold: it may have been some +mental quality, or it may have been her boots! + +"Little Brick," said Mr. Reffold, "isn't it nice to have Winifred here? +And I have been so disagreeable and snappish." + +"Oh, we won't say anything about that now," said Mrs. Reffold, smiling +sweetly. + +"But I've said I am sorry," he continued. "And one can't do more." + +"No," said Bernardine, who was amused at the notion of Mr. Reffold +apologizing to Mrs. Reffold, and of Mrs. Reffold posing as the gracious +forgiver, "one can't do more." But she could not control her feelings, +and she laughed. + +"You seem rather merry this afternoon," Mr. Reffold said, in a +reproachful tone of voice. + +"Yes," she said. And she laughed again. Mrs. Reffold's forgiving +graciousness had altogether upset her gravity. + +"You might at least tell us the joke," Mrs. Reffold said. Bernardine +looked at her hopelessly, and laughed again. + +"I have been developing photographs all the afternoon," she said, "and +I suppose the closeness of the air and the badness of my negatives have +been too much for me. Anyway, I know I must seem very rude." + +She recovered herself after that, and tried hard not to think of +Mrs. Reffold as the dispenser of forgiveness, although it was some time +before she could look at her hostess without wishing to laugh. The +corners of her mouth twitched, and her brown eyes twinkled mischievously, +and she spoke very rapidly, making fun of her first attempts at +photography, and criticising herself so comically, that both Mr. and +Mrs. Reffold were much amused. + +All the same, Bernardine was relieved when Mrs. Reffold went to fetch +some silks, and left her with Mr. Reffold. + +"I am very happy this afternoon, Little Brick," he said to her. "My +wife has been sitting with me. But instead of enjoying the pleasure as +I ought to have done, I began to find fault with her. I don't know how +long I should not have gone on grumbling, but that I suddenly +recollected what you taught me: that we were not to come down like +sledge-hammers on each other's failings. When I remembered that, it was +quite easy to forgive all the neglect and thoughtlessness. Since you +have talked to me, Little Brick, everything has become easier to me!" + +"It is something in your own mind which has worked this," she said; +"your own kind, generous mind, and you put it down to my words!" + +But he shook his head. + +"If I knew of any poor unfortunate devil that wanted to be eased and +comforted," he said, "I should tell him about you, Little Brick. You +have been very good to me. You may be clever, but you have never worried +my stupid brain with too much scholarship. I'm just an ignorant chap, +and you've never let me feel it." + +He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. + +"I say," he continued, "tell my wife it made me happy to have her with +me this afternoon; then perhaps she will stay in another time. I should +like her to know. And she was sweet in her manner, wasn't she? And, by +Jove, she is beautiful! I am glad you have seen her here to-day. It must +be dull for her with an invalid like me. And I know I am irritable. Go +and tell her that she made me happy--will you?" + +The little bit of happiness at which the poor fellow snatched, seemed +to make him more pathetic than before. Bernardine promised to tell his +wife, and went off to find her, making as an excuse a book which +Mrs. Reffold had offered to lend her. Mrs. Reffold was in her bedroom. +She asked. Bernardine to sit down whilst she searched for the book. +She had a very gracious manner when she chose. + +"You are looking much better, Miss Holme," she said kindly. "I cannot +help noticing your face. It looks younger and brighter. The bracing air +has done you good." + +"Yes, I am better," Bernardine said, rather astonished that Mrs. Reffold +should have noticed her at all. "Mr. Allitsen informs me that I shall +live, but never be strong. He settles every question of that sort to his +own satisfaction, but not always to the satisfaction of other people!" + +"He is a curious person," Mrs. Reffold said smiling; "though I must say +he is not quite as gruff as he used to be. You seem to be good friends +with him." + +She would have liked to say more on this subject, but experience had +taught her that Bernardine was not to be trifled with. + +"I don't know about being good friends," Bernardine said, "but I have a +great sympathy for him. I know myself what it is to be cut off from +work and active life. I have been through a misery. But mine is nothing +to his." + +She rose to go, but Mrs. Reffold detained her. + +"Don't go yet," she said. "It is pleasant to have you." + +She was leaning back in an arm-chair playing with the fringe of an +antimacassar. + +"Oh, how tired I am of this horrid place!" she said suddenly. "And I +have had a most wearying afternoon. Mr. Reffold seems to be more +irritable every day. It is very hard that I should have to bear it." + +Bernardine listened to her in astonishment. + +"Yes," she added, "I am quite worn out. He never used to be so +irritable. It is all very tiresome. It is quite telling on my health." + +She looked the picture of health. + +Bernardine gasped; and Mrs. Reffold continued: + +"His grumbling this afternoon has been incessant; so much so that he +himself was ashamed, and asked me to forgive him. You heard him, didn't +you?" + +"Yes, I heard him," Bernardine said. + +"And of course I forgave him at once," Mrs. Reffold said piously. +"Naturally one would do that, but the vexation remains all the same." + +"Can these things be?" thought Bernardine to herself. + +"He spoke in a most ridiculous way," she went on: "it certainly is not +encouraging for me to spend another afternoon with him. I shall go +sledging to-morrow." + +"You generally do go sledging, don't you?" Bernardine asked mildly. + +Mrs. Reffold looked at her suspiciously. She was never quite sure that +Bernardine was not making fun of her. + +"It is little enough pleasure I do have," she added, as though in self- +defence. "And he seems to grudge me that too." + +"I don't think he would grudge you anything," Bernardine said, with +some warmth. "He loves you too much for that. You don't know how much +pleasure you give him when you spare him a little of your time. He told +me how happy you made him this afternoon. You could see for yourself +that he was happy. Mrs. Reffold, make him happy whilst you still have +him. Don't you understand that he is passing away from you--don't you +understand, or is it that you won't? We all see it, all except you!" + +She stopped suddenly, surprised at her boldness. + +Mrs. Reffold was still leaning back in the arm-chair, her hands clasped +together above her beautiful head. Her face was pale. She did not speak. +Bernardine waited. The silence was unbroken save by the merry cries of +some children tobogganing in the Kurhaus garden. The stillness grew +oppressive, and Bernardine rose. She knew from the effort which those +few words had cost her, how far removed she was from her old former self. + +"Good-bye, Mrs. Reffold," she said nervously. + +"Good-bye, Miss Holme," was the only answer. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS + + +THE Doctors in Petershof always said that the caretakers of the invalids +were a much greater anxiety than the invalids themselves. The invalids +would either get better or die: one of two things probably. At any rate, +you knew where you were with them. But not so with the caretakers: there +was nothing they were not capable of doing--except taking reasonable +care of their invalids! They either fussed about too much, or else they +did not fuss about at all. They all began by doing the right thing: they +all ended by doing the wrong. The fussy ones had fits of apathy, when +the poor irritable patients seemed to get a little better; the negligent +ones had paroxysms of attentiveness, when their invalids, accustomed to +loneliness and neglect, seemed to become rather worse by being worried. + +To remonstrate with the caretakers would have been folly: for they were +well satisfied with their own methods. + +To contrive their departure would have been an impossibility: for they +were firmly convinced that their presence was necessary to the welfare +of their charges. And then, too, judging from the way in which they +managed to amuse themselves, they liked being in Petershof, though they +never owned that to the invalids. On the contrary, it was the custom for +the caretakers to depreciate the place, and to deplore the necessity +which obliged them to continue there month after month. They were fond, +too, of talking about the sacrifices which they made, and the pleasures +which they willingly gave up in order to stay with their invalids. They +said this in the presence of their invalids. And if the latter had told +them by all means to pack up and go back to the pleasures which they +had renounced, they would have been astonished at the ingratitude which +could suggest the idea. + +They were amusing characters, these caretakers. They were so thoroughly +unconscious of their own deficiencies. They might neglect their own +invalids, but they would look after other people's invalids, and play +the nurse most soothingly and prettily where there was no call and no +occasion. Then they would come and relate to their neglected dear ones +what they had been doing for others: and the dear ones would smile +quietly, and watch the buttons being stitched on for strangers, and the +cornflour which they could not get nicely made for themselves, being +carefully prepared for other people's neglected dear ones. + +Some of the dear ones were rather bitter. But there were many of a +higher order of intelligence, who seemed to realize that they had no +right to be ill, and that being ill, and therefore a burden on their +friends, they must make the best of everything, and be grateful for +what was given them, and patient when anything was withheld. Others of +a still higher order of understanding, attributed the eccentricities of +the caretakers to one cause alone: the Petershof air. They know it had +the invariable effect of getting into the head, and upsetting the +balance of those who drank deep of it. Therefore no one was to blame, +and no one need be bitter. But these were the philosophers of the +colony: a select and dainty few in any colony. But there were several +rebels amongst the invalids, and they found consolation in confiding to +each other their separate grievances. They generally held their +conferences in the rooms known as the newspaper-rooms, where they were +not likely to be interrupted by any caretakers who might have stayed at +home because they were tired out. + +To-day there were only a few rebels gathered together, but they were +more than usually excited, because the Doctors had told several of them +that their respective caretakers must be sent home. + +"What must I do?" said little Mdlle. Gerardy, wringing her hands. "The +Doctor says that I must tell my sister to go home: that she only worries +me, and makes me worse. He calls her a 'whirlwind.' If I won't tell her, +then he will tell her, and we shall have some more scenes. Mon Dieu! and +I am so tired of them. They terrify me. I would suffer anything rather +than have a fresh scene. And I can't get her to do anything for me. +She has no time for me. And, yet she thinks she takes the greatest +possible care of me, and devotes the whole day to me. Why, sometimes I +never see her for hours together." + +"Well, at least she does not quarrel with every one, as my mother does," +said a Polish gentleman, M. Lichinsky. "Nearly every day she has a +quarrel with some one or other; and then she comes to me and says she +has been insulted. And others come to me mad with rage, and complain +that they have been insulted by her. As though I were to blame! I tell +them that now. I tell them that my mother's quarrels are not my quarrels. +But one longs for peace. And the Doctor says I must have it, and that +my mother must go home at once. If I tell her that, she will have a +tremendous quarrel with the Doctor. As it is, he will scarcely speak to +her. So you see, Mademoiselle Gerardy, that I, too, am in a bad plight. +What am I to do?" + +Then a young American spoke. He had been getting gradually worse since +he came to Petershof, but his brother, a bright sturdy young fellow, +seemed quite unconscious of the seriousness of his condition. + +"And what am I to do?" he asked pathetically. "My brother does not even +think I am ill. He says I am to rouse myself and come skating and +tobogganing with him. Then I tell him that the Doctor says I must lie +quietly in the sun. I have no one to take care of me, so I try to take +a little care of myself, and then I am laughed at. It is bad enough to +be ill; but it is worse when those who might help you a little, won't +even believe in your illness. I wrote home once and told them; but they +go by what he says; and they, too, tell me to rouse myself." + +His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were leaden. There was no power in his +voice, no vigour in his frame. He was just slipping quickly down the +hill for want of proper care and understanding. + +"I don't know whether I am much better off than you," said an English +lady, Mrs. Bridgetower. "I certainly have a trained nurse to look after +me, but she is altogether too much for me, and she does just as she +pleases. She is always ailing, or else pretends to be; and she is always +depressed. She grumbles from eight in the morning till nine at night. +I have heard that she is cheerful with other people, but she never gives +me the benefit of her brightness. Poor thing! She does feel the cold +very much, but it is not very cheering to see her crouching near the +stove, with her arms almost clasping it! When she is not talking of her +own looks, all she says is: 'Oh, if I had only not come to Petershof!' +or, 'Why did I ever leave that hospital in Manchester?' or, 'The cold +is eating into the very marrow of my bones.' At first she used to read +to me; but it was such a dismal performance that I could not bear to +hear her. Why don't I send her home? Well, my husband will not hear of +me being alone, and he thinks I might do worse than keep Nurse Frances. +And perhaps I might." + +"I would give a good deal to have a sister like pretty Fräulein Müller +has," said little Fräulein Oberhof. "She came to look after me the other +day when I was alone. She has the kindest way about her. But when my +sister came in, she was not pleased to find Fräulein Sophie Müller with +me. She does not do anything for me herself, and she does not like any +one else to do anything either. Still, she is very good to other people. +She comes up from the theatre sometimes at half-past nine--that is the +hour when I am just sleepy--and she stamps about the room, and makes +cornflour for the old Polish lady. Then off she goes, taking with her +the cornflour together with my sleep. Once I complained, but she said I +was irritable. You can't think how teasing it is to hear the noise of +the spoon stirring the cornflour just when you are feeling drowsy. You +say to yourself, 'Will that cornflour never be made? It seems to take +centuries.'" + +"One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself," said +M. Lichinsky. "But at least, Fräulein, your sister does not quarrel +with every one. You must be grateful for that mercy!" + +Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room. +She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She +spoke with a whirlwind of Polish words. It is sometimes difficult to +know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there +was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose +from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his +confederates, and shrugged his shoulders. + +"Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING. + + +"YOU may have talent for other things," Robert Allitsen said one day to +Bernardine, "but you certainly have no talent for photography. You have +not made the slightest progress." + +"I don't at all agree with you," Bernardine answered rather peevishly. +"I think I am getting on very well." + +"You are no judge," he said. "To begin with, you cannot focus properly. +You have a crooked eye. I have told you that several times!" + +"You certainly have," she put in. "You don't let me forget that." + +"Your photograph of that horrid little danseuse whom you like so much," +he said, "is simply abominable. She looks like a fury. Well, she may be +one for all I know, but in real life she has not the appearance of one." + +"I think that is the best photograph I have done," Bernardine said, +highly indignant. She could tolerate his uppishness about subjects of +which she knew far more than he did; but his masterfulness about a +subject of which she really knew nothing was more than she could bear +with patience. He had not the tact to see that she was irritated. + +"I don't know about it being the best," he said; "unless it is the best +specimen of your inexperience. Looked at from that point of view, it +does stand first!" + +She flushed crimson with temper. + +"Nothing is easier than to make fun of others," she said fiercely. "It +is the resource of the ignorant." + +Then, after the fashion of angry women, having said her say, she stalked +away. If there had been a door to bang, she would certainly have banged +it. However, she did what she could under the circumstances: she pushed +a curtain roughly aside, and passed into the concert-room, where every +night of the season's six months, a scratchy string orchestra entertained +the Kurhaus guests. She left the Disagreeable Man standing in the passage. + +"Dear me," he said thoughtfully. And he stroked his chin. Then he trudged +slowly up to his room. + +"Dear me," he said once more. + +Arrived in his bedroom, he began to read. But after a few minutes he +shut his book, took the lamp to the looking-glass and brushed his hair. +Then he put on a black coat and a white silk tie. There was a speck of +dust on the coat. He carefully removed that, and then extinguished the +lamp. + +On his way downstairs he met Marie, who gazed at him in astonishment. +It was quite unusual for him to be seen again when he had once come up +from _table-d'hôte_. She noticed the black coat and the white silk tie +too, and reported on these eccentricities to her colleague Anna. + +The Disagreeable Man meanwhile had reached the Concert Hall. He glanced +around, and saw where Bernardine was sitting, and then chose a place in +the opposite direction, quite by himself. He looked somewhat like a dog +who has been well beaten. Now and again he looked up to see whether she +still kept her seat. The bad music was a great irritation to him. But he +stayed on heroically. There was no reason why he should stay. Gradually, +too, the audience began to thin. Still he lingered, always looking like +a dog in punishment. + +At last Bernardine rose, and the Disagreeable Man rose too. He followed +her humbly to the door. She turned and saw him. + +"I am sorry I put you in a bad temper," he said. "It was stupid of me." + +"I am sorry I got into a bad temper," she answered, laughing. "It was +stupid of me." + +"I think I have said enough to apologize," he said. "It is a process I +dislike very much." + +And with that he wished her good-night and went to his room. + +But that was not the end of the matter, for the next day when he was +taking his breakfast with her, he of his own accord returned to the +subject. + +"It was partly your own fault that I vexed you last night," he said. +"You have never before been touchy, and so I have become accustomed to +saying what I choose. And it is not in my nature to be flattering." + +"That is a very truthful statement of yours," she said, as she poured +out her coffee. "But I own I was touchy. And so I shall be again if you +make such cutting remarks about my photographs!" + +"You have a crooked eye," he said grimly. "Look there, for instance! +You have poured your coffee outside the cup. Of course you can do as +you like, but the usual custom is to pour it inside the cup." + +They both laughed, and the good understanding between them was cemented +again. + +"You are certainly getting better," he said suddenly. "I should not be +surprised if you were able to write a book after all. Not that a new +book is wanted. There are too many books as it is; and not enough people +to dust them. Still, it is not probable that you would be considerate +enough to remember that. You will write your book." + +Bernardine shook her head. + +"I don't seem to care now," she said. "I think I could now be content +with a quieter and more useful part." + +"You will write your book," he continued. "Now listen to me. Whatever +else you may do, don't make your characters hold long discussions with +each other. In real life, people do not talk four pages at a time +without stopping. Also, if you bring together two clever men, don't make +them talk cleverly. Clever people do not. It is only the stupid who +think they must talk cleverly all the time. And don't detain your reader +too long: if you must have a sunset, let it be a short one. I could give +you many more hints which would be useful to you." + +"But why not use your own hints for yourself?" she suggested. + +"That would be selfish of me," he said solemnly. "I wish you to profit +by them." + +"You are learning to be unselfish at a very rapid rate," Bernardine said. + +At that moment Mrs. Reffold came into the breakfast-room, and, seeing +Bernardine, gave her a stiff bow. + +"I thought you and Mrs. Reffold were such friends," Robert Allitsen said. + +Bernardine then told him of her last interview with Mrs. Reffold. + +"Well, if you feel uncomfortable, it is as it should be," he said. "I +don't see what business you had to point out to Mrs. Reffold her duty. +I dare say she knows it quite well though she may not choose to do it. +I am sure I should resent it, if any one pointed out my duty to me. +Every one knows his own duty. And it is his own affair whether or not +he does it." + +"I wonder if you are right," Bernardine said. "I never meant to presume; +but her indifference had exasperated me." + +"Why should you be exasperated about other people's affairs?" he said. +"And why interfere at all?" + +"Being interested is not the same as being interfering," she replied +quickly. + +"It is difficult to be the one without being the other," he said. "It +requires a genius. There is a genius for being sympathetic as well as +a genius for being good. And geniuses are few." + +"But I knew one," Bernardine said. "There was a friend to whom in the +first days of my trouble I turned for sympathy. When others only +irritated, she could soothe. She had only to come into my room, and +all was well with me." + +There were tears in Bernardine's eyes as she spoke. + +"Well," said the Disagreeable Man kindly, "and where is your genius now?" + +"She went away, she and hers," Bernardine said "And that was the end of +that chapter!" + +"Poor little child," he said, half to himself. "Don't I too know +something about the ending of such a chapter?" + +But Bernardine did not hear him; she was thinking of her friend. She was +thinking, as we all think, that those to whom in our suffering we turn +for sympathy, become hallowed beings. Saints they may not be; but for +want of a better name, saints they are to us, gracious and lovely +presences. The great time Eternity, the great space Death, could not rob +them of their saintship; for they were canonized by our bitterest tears. + +She was roused from her reverie by the Disagreeable Man, who got up, and +pushed his chair noisily under the table. + +"Will you come and help me to develop some photographs?" he asked +cheerily. "You do not need to have a straight eye for that!" + +Then as they went along together, he said: + +"When we come to think about it seriously, it is rather absurd for us to +expect to have uninterrupted stretches of happiness. Happiness falls to +our share in separate detached bits; and those of us who are wise, +content ourselves with these broken fragments." + +"But who is wise?" Bernardine asked. "Why, we all expect to be happy. +No one told us that we were to be happy. Still, though no one told us, +it is the true instinct of human nature." + +"It would be interesting to know at what particular period of evolution +into our present glorious types we felt that instinct for the first +time," he said. "The sunshine must have had something to do with it. +You see how a dog throws itself down in the sunshine; the most wretched +cur heaves a sigh of content then; the sulkiest cat begins to purr." + +They were standing outside the room set apart for the photograph-maniacs +of the Kurhaus. + +"I cannot go into that horrid little hole," Bernardine said. "And +besides, I have promised to play chess with the Swedish professor. +And after that I am going to photograph Marie. I promised Wärli I would." + +The Disagreeable Man smiled grimly. + +"I hope he will be able to recognize her!" he said. Then, feeling that +he was on dangerous ground, he added quickly: + +"If you want any more plates, I can oblige you." + +On her way to her room she stopped to talk to pretty Fräulein Müller, +who was in high spirits, having had an excellent report from the Doctor. +Fräulein Müller always insisted on talking English with Bernardine; and +as her knowledge of it was limited, a certain amount of imagination was +necessary to enable her to be understood. + +"Ah, Miss Holme," she said, "I have deceived an exquisite report from +the Doctor." + +"You are looking ever so well," Bernardine said. "And the love-making +with the Spanish gentleman goes on well, too?" + +"Ach!" was the merry answer. "That is your inventory! I am quite +indolent to him!" + +At that moment the Spanish gentleman came out of the Kurhaus flower- +shop, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. + +"Mademoiselle," he said, handing them to Fräulein Müller, and at the +same time putting his hand to his heart. He had not noticed Bernardine +at first, and when he saw her, he became somewhat confused. She smiled +at them both, and escaped into the flower-shop, which was situated in +one of the covered passages connecting the mother-building with the +dependencies. Herr Schmidt, the gardener, was making a wreath. His +favourite companion, a saffron cat, was playing with the wire. Schmidt +was rather an ill-tempered man, but he liked Bernardine. + +"I have put these violets aside for you, Fräulein," he said, in his +sulky way. "I meant to have sent them to your room, but have been +interrupted in my work." + +"You spoil me with your gifts," she said. + +"You spoil my cat with the milk," he replied, looking up from his work. + +"That is a beautiful wreath you are making, Herr Schmidt," she said. +"Who has died? Any one in the Kurhaus?" + +"No, Fräulein. But I ought to keep my door locked when I make these +wreaths. People get frightened, and think they, too, are going to die. +Shall you be frightened, I wonder?" + +"No, I believe not," she answered as she took possession of her violets, +and stroked the saffron cat. "But I am glad no one has died here." + +"It is for a young, beautiful lady," he said. "She was in the Kurhaus +two years ago. I liked her. So I am taking extra pains. She did not care +for the flowers to be wired. So I am trying my best without the wire. +But it is difficult." + +She left him to his work, and went away, thinking. All the time she had +now been in Petershof had not sufficed to make her indifferent to the +sadness of her surroundings. In vain the Disagreeable Man's preachings, +in vain her own reasonings with herself. + +These people here who suffered, and faded, and passed away, who were +they to her? + +Why should the faintest shadow steal across her soul on account of them? + +There was no reason. And still she felt for them all, she who in the old +days would have thought it waste of time to spare a moment's reflection +on anything so unimportant as the sufferings of an _individual_ human +being. + +And the bridge between her former and her present self was her own +illness. + +What dull-minded sheep we must all be, how lacking in the very elements +of imagination, since we are only able to learn by personal experience +of grief and suffering, something about the suffering and grief of +others! + +Yea, how the dogs must wonder at us: those dogs who know when we are in +pain or trouble, and nestle nearer to us. + +So Bernardine reached her own door. She heard her name called, and, +turning round, saw Mrs. Reffold. There was a scared look on the +beautiful face. + +"Miss Holme," she said, "I have been sent for--I daren't go to him +alone--I want you--he is worse. I am" . . . . + +Bernardine took her hand, and the two women hurried away in silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE. + + +BERNARDINE had seen Mr. Reffold the previous day. She had sat by his +side and held his hand. He had smiled at her many times, but he only +spoke once. + +"Little Brick," he whispered--for his voice had become nothing but a +whisper. "I remember all you told me. God bless you. But what a long +time it does take to die." + +But that was yesterday. + +The lane had come to an ending at last, and Mr. Reffold lay dead. + +They bore him to the little mortuary chapel. And Bernardine stayed with +Mrs. Reffold, who seemed afraid to be alone. She clung to Bernardine's +hand. + +"No, no," she said excitedly, "you must not go! I can't bear to be +alone: you must stay with me!" + +She expressed no sorrow, no regret. She did not even speak his name. +She just sat nursing her beautiful face. + +Once or twice Bernardine tried to slip away. This waiting about was a +strain on her, and she felt that she was doing no good. + +But each time Mrs. Reffold looked up and prevented her. + +"No, no," she said. "I can't bear myself without you. I must have you +near me. Why should you leave me?" + +So Bernardine lingered. She tried to read a book which lay on the table. +She counted the lines and dots on the wall-paper. She thought about the +dead man; and about the living woman. She had pitied him; but when she +looked at the stricken face of his wife, Bernardine's whole heart rose +up in pity for her. Remorse would come, although it might not remain +long. The soul would see itself face to face for one brief moment; and +then forget its own likeness. + +But for the moment--what a weight of suffering, what a whole century of +agony! + +Bernardine grew very tender for Mrs. Reffold: she bent over the sofa, +and fondled the beautiful face. + +"Mrs. Reffold" . . . she whispered. + +That was all she said: but it was enough. + +Mrs. Reffold burst into an agony of tears. + +"Oh, Miss Holme," she sobbed, "and I was not even kind to him! And now +it is too late. How can I ever bear myself?" + +And then it was that the soul knew its own remorse. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES. + + +SHE had left him alone and neglected for whole hours when he was alive. +And now when he was dead, and it probably mattered little to him where +he was laid, it was some time before she could make up her mind to +leave him in the lonely little Petershof cemetery. + +"It will be so dreary for him there," she said to the Doctor. + +"Not so dreary as you made it for him here," thought the Doctor. + +But he did not say that: he just urged her quietly to have her husband +buried in Petershof; and she yielded. + +So they laid him to rest in the dreary cemetery. + +Bernardine went to the funeral, much against the Disagreeable Man's wish. + +"You are looking like a ghost yourself," he said to her. "Come out with +me into the country instead." + +But she shook her head. + +"Another day," she said. "And Mrs. Reffold wants me. I can't leave her +alone, for she is so miserable." + +The Disagreeable Man shrugged his shoulders, and went off by himself. + +Mrs. Reffold clung very much to Bernardine those last days before she +left Petershof. She had decided to go to Wiesbaden, where she had +relations; and she invited Bernardine to go with her: it was more than +that, she almost begged her. Bernardine refused. + +"I have been from England nearly five months," she said, "and my money +is coming to an end. I must go back and work." + +"Then come away with me as my companion," Mrs. Reffold suggested. "And +I will pay you a handsome salary." + +Bernardine could not be persuaded. + +"No," she said. "I could not earn money that way: it would not suit me. +And besides, you would not care to be a long time with me: you would +soon tire of me. You think you would like to have me with you now. But +I know how it would be: You would be sorry, and so should I. So let us +part as we are now: you going your way, and I going mine. We live in +different worlds, Mrs. Reffold. It would be as senseless for me to +venture into yours, as for you to come into mine. Do you think I am +unkind?" + +So they parted. Mrs. Reffold had spoken no word of affection to +Bernardine, but at the station, as she bent down to kiss her, she +whispered: + +"I know you will not think too hardly of me. Still, will you promise +me? And if you are ever in trouble, and I can help you, will you write +to me?" + +And Bernardine promised. + +When she got back to her room, she found a small packet on her table. +It contained Mr. Reffold's watch-chain. She had so often seen him +playing with it. There was a little piece of paper enclosed with it, +and Mr. Reffold had written on it some two months ago: "Give my watch- +chain to Little Brick, if she will sacrifice a little of her pride, and +accept the gift." Bernardine unfastened her watch from the black hair +cord, and attached it instead to Mr. Reffold's massive gold chain. + +As she sat there fiddling with it, the idea seized her that she would +be all the better for a day's outing. At first she thought she would go +alone, and then she decided to ask Robert Allitsen. She learnt from +Marie that he was in the dark room, and she hastened down. She knocked +several times before there was any answer. + +"I can't be disturbed just now," he said. "Who is it?" + +"I can't shout to you," she said. + +The Disagreeable Man opened the door of the dark room. + +"My negatives will be spoilt," he said gruffly. Then seeing Bernardine +standing there, he added: + +"Why, you look as though you wanted some brandy." + +"No," she said, smiling at his sudden change of manner. "I want fresh +air, a sledge drive, and a day's outing. Will you come?" + +He made no answer, and retired once more into the dark room. Then he +came out with his camera. + +"We will go to that inn again," he said cheerily. "I want to take the +photographs to those peasants." + +In half an hours time they were on their way. It was the same drive as +before: and since then, Bernardine had seen more of the country, and was +more accustomed to the wonderful white scenery: but still the "white +presences" awed her, and still the deep silence held her. It was the +same scene, and yet not the same either, for the season was now far +advanced, and the melting of the snows had begun. In the far distance +the whiteness seemed as before; but on the slopes near at hand, the +green was beginning to assert itself, and some of the great trees had +cast off their heavy burdens, and appeared more gloomy in their freedom +than in the days of their snow-bondage. The roads were no longer quite +so even as before; the sledge glided along when it could, and bumped +along when it must. Still, there was sufficient snow left to make the +drive possible, and even pleasant. + +The two companions were quiet. Once only the Disagreeable Man made a +remark, and then he said: + +"I am afraid my negatives will be spoilt!" + +"You said that before," Bernardine remarked. + +"Well, I say it again," he answered in his grim way. + +Then came a long pause. + +"The best part of the winter is over," he said. "We may have some more +snow; but it is more probable that we shall not. It is not enjoyable +being here during the melting time." + +"Well, in any case I should not be here much longer," she said; "and +for a simple reason, too. I have nearly come to the end of my money. +I shall have to go back and set to work again. I should not have been +able to give myself this chance, but that my uncle spared me some of +his money, to which I added my savings." + +"Are you badly off?" the Disagreeable Man asked rather timidly. + +"I have very few wants," she answered brightly. "And wealth is only a +relative word, after all." + +"It is a pity that you should go back to work so soon," he said half to +himself. "You are only just better; and it is easy to lose what one has +gained." + +"Oh, I am not likely to lose," she answered; "but I shall be careful +this time. I shall do a little teaching, and perhaps a little writing: +not much--you need not be vexed. I shall not try to pick up the other +threads yet. I shall not be political, nor educational, nor anything +else great." + +"If you call politics or education great," he said. "And heaven defend +me from political or highly educated women!" + +"You say that because you know nothing about them," she said sharply. + +"Thank you," he replied. "I have met them quite often enough!" + +"That was probably some time ago," she said rather heartlessly. "If you +have lived here so long, how can you judge of the changes which go on +in the world outside Petershof?" + +"If I have lived here so long," he repeated, in the bitterness of his +heart. + +Bernardine did not notice: she was on a subject which always excited her. + +"I don't know so much about the political women," she said, "but I do +know about the higher education people. The writers who rail against +the women of this date are really describing the women of ten years ago. +Why, the Girton girl of ten years ago seems a different creation from +the Girton girl of to-day. Yet the latter has been the steady outgrowth +of the former!" + +"And the difference between them?" asked the Disagreeable Man; "since +you pride yourself on being so well informed." + +"The Girton girl of ten years ago," said Bernardine, "was a, sombre, +spectacled person, carelessly and dowdily dressed, who gave herself up +to wisdom, and despised every one who did not know the Agamemnon by +heart. She was probably not lovable; but she deserves to be honoured +and thankfully remembered. She fought for woman's right to be well +educated, and I cannot bear to hear her slighted. The fresh-hearted +young girl who nowadays plays a good game of tennis, and takes a high +place in the Classical or Mathematical Tripos, and is book learnèd, +without being bookish, and . . . ." + +"What other virtues are left, I wonder?" he interrupted. + +"And who does not scorn to take a pride in her looks because she happens +to take a pride in her books," continued Bernardine, looking at the +Disagreeable Man, and not seeming to see him: "she is what she is by +reason of that grave and loveless woman who won the battle for her." + +Here she paused. + +"But how ridiculous for me to talk to you in this way!" she said. "It +is not likely that you would be interested in the widening out of +women's lives." + +"And pray why not?" he asked. "Have I been on the shelf too long?" + +"I think you would not have been interested even if you had never been +on the shelf," she said frankly. "You are not the type of man to be +generous to woman." + +"May I ask one little question of you, which shall conclude this +subject," he said, "since here we are already at the Gasthaus: to which +type of learnèd woman do you lay claim to belong?" + +Bernardine laughed. + +"That I leave to your own powers of discrimination," she said, and then +added, "if you have any." + +And that was the end of the matter, for the word spread about that Herr +Allitsen had arrived, and every one turned out to give the two guests +greeting. Frau Steinhart smothered Bernardine with motherly tenderness, +and whispered in her ear: + +"You are betrothed now, liebes Fräulein? Ach, I am sure of it." + +But Bernardine smiled and shook her head, and went to greet the others +who crowded round them; and at last poor Catharina drew near too, +holding Bernardine's hand lovingly within her own. Then Hans, Liza's +lover, came upon the scene, and Liza told the Disagreeable Man that she +and Hans were to be married in a month's time. And the Disagreeable Man, +much to Bernardine's amazement, drew from his pocket a small parcel, +which he confided to Liza's care. Every one pressed round her while she +opened it, and found what she had so often wished for, a silver watch +and chain. + +"Ach," she cried, "how heavenly! How all the girls here will envy me! +How angry my dear friend Susanna will be!" + +Then there were the photographs to be examined. + +Liza looked with stubborn disapproval on the pictures of herself in her +working-dress. But she did not conceal her admiration of the portraits +which showed her to the world in her best finery. + +"Ach," she cried, "this is something like a photograph!" + +The Disagreeable Man grunted, but behaved after the fashion of a hero, +claiming, however, a little silent sympathy from Bernardine. + +It was a pleasant, homely scene: and Bernardine, who, felt quite at her +ease amongst these people, chatted away with them as though she had +known them all her life. + +Then Frau Steinhart suddenly remembered that her guests needed some food, +and Liza was despatched to her duties as cook; though it was some time +before she could be induced to leave off looking at the photographs. + +"Take them with you, Liza," said the Disagreeable Man. "Then we shall +get our meal all the quicker!" + +She ran off laughing, and finally Bernardine found herself alone with +Catharina. + +"Liza is very happy," she said to Bernardine. "She loves, and is loved." + +"That is the greatest happiness," Bernardine said half to herself. + +"Fräulein knows?" Catharina asked eagerly. + +Bernardine looked wistfully at her companion. "No, Catharina," she said. +"I have only heard and read and seen." + +"Then _you_ cannot understand," Catharina said almost proudly. "But _I_ +understand!" + +She spoke no more after that, but took up her knitting, and watched +Bernardine playing with the kittens. She was playing with the kittens, +and she was thinking; and all the time she felt conscious that this +peasant woman, stricken in mind and body, was pitying her because that +great happiness of loving and being loved had not come into her life. +It had seemed something apart from her; she had never even wanted it. +She had wished to stand alone, like a little rock out at sea. + +And now? + +In a few minutes the Disagreeable Man and she sat down to their meal. +In spite of her excitement, Liza managed to prepare everything nicely; +though when she was making the omelette _aux fines herbes_, she had to +be kept guarded lest she might run off to have another look at the +silver watch and the photographs of herself in her finest frock! + +Then Bernardine and Robert Allitsen drank to the health of Hans and +Liza: and then came the time of reckoning. When he was paying the bill, +Frau Steinhart, having given him the change, said coaxingly: + +"Last time, you and Fräulein each paid a share: to-day you pay all. Then +perhaps you are betrothed at last, dear Herr Allitsen? Ach, how the old +Hausfrau wishes you happiness! Who deserves to be happy, if it is not +our dear Herr Allitsen?" + +"You have given me twenty centimes too much," he said quietly. "You +have your head so full of other things that you cannot reckon properly." + +But seeing that she looked troubled lest she might have offended him, +he added quickly: + +"When I am betrothed, good little old housemother, you shall be the +first to know." + +And she had to be content with that. She asked no more questions of +either of them: but she was terribly disappointed. There was something +a little comical in her disappointment; but Robert Allitsen was not +amused at it, as he had been on a former occasion. As he leaned back +in the sledge, with the same girl for his companion, he recalled his +feelings. He had been astonished and amused, and perhaps a little shy, +and a great deal relieved that she had been sensible enough to be +amused too. + +And now? + +They had been constantly together for many months: he who had never +cared before for companionship, had found himself turning more and more +to her. + +_And now he was going to lose her_. + +He looked up once or twice to make sure that she was still by his side: +she sat there so quietly. At last he spoke in his usual gruff way. + +"Have you exhausted all your eloquence in your oration about learned +women?" he asked. + +"No, I am reserving it for a better audience," she answered, trying to +be bright. But she was not bright. + +"I believe you came out to the country to day to seek for cheerfulness," +he said after a pause. "Have you found it?" + +"I do not know," she said. "It takes me some time to recover from +shocks; and Mr. Reffold's death was a sorrow to me. What do you think +about death? Have you any theories about life and death, and the bridge +between them? Could you say anything to help one?" + +"Nothing," he answered. "Who could? And by what means?" + +"Has there been no value in philosophy," she asked, "and the meditations +of learnèd men?" + +"Philosophy!" he sneered. "What has it done for us? It has taught us +some processes of the mind's working; taught us a few wonderful things +which interest the few; but the centuries have come and gone, and the +only thing which the whole human race pants to know, remains unknown: +our beloved ones, shall we meet them, and how?--the great secret of the +universe. We ask for bread, and these philosophers give us a stone. +What help could come from them: or from any one? Death is simply one of +the hard facts of life." + +"And the greatest evil," she said. + +"We weave our romances about the next world," he continued; "and any +one who has a fresh romance to relate, or an old one dressed up in new +language, will be listened to, and welcomed. That helps some people for +a little while; and when the charm of the romance is over, then they +are ready for another, perhaps more fantastic than the last. But the +plot is always the same: our beloved ones--shall we meet them, and how? +Isn't it pitiful? Why cannot we be more impersonal? These puny, petty +minds of ours! When will they learn to expand?" + +"Why should we learn to be more impersonal?" she said. "There was a time +when I felt like that; but now I have learnt something better: that we +need not be ashamed of being human; above all, of having the best of +human instincts, love, and the passionate wish for its continuance, and +the unceasing grief at its withdrawal. There is no indignity in this; +nor any trace of weakmindedness in our restless craving to know about +the Hereafter, and the possibilities of meeting again those whom we have +lost here. It is right, and natural, and lovely that it should be the +most important question. I know that many will say that there _are_ +weightier questions: they say so, but do they think so? Do we want to +know first and foremost whether we shall do our work better elsewhere: +whether we shall be endowed with more wisdom: whether, as poor +Mr. Reffold said, we shall be glad to behave less like curs, and more +like heroes? These questions come in, but they can be put aside. The +other question can _never_ be put on one side. If that were to become +possible, it would only be so because the human heart had lost the best +part of itself, its own humanity. We shall go on building our bridge +between life and death, each one for himself. When we see that it is +not strong enough, we shall break it down and build another. We shall +watch other people building their bridges. We shall imitate, or +criticise, or condemn. But as time goes on, we shall learn not to +interfere, we shall know that one bridge is probably as good as the +other; and that the greatest value of them all has been in the building +of them. It does not matter what we build, but build we must: you, and I, +and every one." + +"I have long ceased to build my bridge," the Disagreeable Man said. + +"It is an almost unconscious process," she said. "Perhaps you are still +at work, or perhaps you are resting." + +He shrugged his shoulders, and the two comrades fell into silence again. + +They were within two miles of Petershof, when he broke the silence: +there was something wonderfully gentle in his voice. + +"You little thing," he said, "we are nearing home, and I have something +to ask you. It is easier for me to ask here in the free open country, +where the space seems to give us breathing room for our cramped lungs +and minds!" + +"Well," she said kindly; she wondered what he could have to say. + +"I am a little nervous of offending you," he continued, "and yet I trust +you. It is only this. You said you had come to the end of your money, +and that you must go home. It seems a pity when you are getting better. +I have so much more than I need. I don't offer it to you as a gift, but +I thought if you wished to stay longer, a loan from me would not be +quite impossible to you. You could repay as quickly or as slowly as was +convenient to you, and I should only be grateful and" . . . . + +He stopped suddenly. + +The tears had gathered in Bernardine's eyes her hand rested for one +moment on his arm. + +"Mr. Allitsen," she said, "you did well to trust me. But I could not +borrow money of any one, unless I was obliged. If I could of any one, +it would have been of you. It is not a month ago since I was a little +anxious about money; my remittances did not come. I thought then that +if obliged to ask for temporary help, I should come to you: so you see +if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you." + +A smile passed over the Disagreeable Man's face, one of his rare, +beautiful smiles. + +"Supposing you change your mind," he said quietly, "you will not find +that I have changed mine." + +Then a few minutes brought them back to Petershof. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +A BETROTHAL. + + +HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his +answer. It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know +exactly where he stood in her affections. She had certainly given him +little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not +indifferent to his admiration. Little signs were all very well for a +short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end: she had told +him that she was going back to her work at home. And then perhaps he +would lose her altogether. It would not be safe now for him to delay a +single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with courage. + +Wärli's brain was muddled that day. He who prided himself upon knowing +the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes +about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his +stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger +person than the little hunchback postman. + +In fact, he ceased to care how he gave out the letters: all the +envelopes seemed to have the same name on them: _Marie Truog_. Every +word which he tried to decipher turned to that; so finally he tried no +more, leaving the destination of the letter to be decided by the +impulse of the moment. At last he arrived at that quarter of the +Kurhaus where Marie held sway. He heard her singing in her pantry. +Suddenly she was summoned downstairs by an impatient bellringer, +and on her return found Wärli waiting in the passage. + +"What a goose you are!" she cried, throwing a letter at him; "you have +left the wrong letter at No. 82." + +Then some one else rang, and Marie hurried off again. She came back with +another letter in her hand, and found Wärli sitting in her pantry. + +"The wrong letter left at No. 54," she said, "and Madame in a horrid +temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Wärli! Can't you +read? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I'll sort them." + +Wärli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead. + +"I can't read to-day, Marie," he said; something has gone wrong with me. +Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every +one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you, +though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write +at the same time, to catch the same post." + +"It would be very dull if they did," said Marie, who was polishing some +water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary. + +"But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen," the little postman said. +"I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to +look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the +book itself is not a bad book." + +Marie went on polishing the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the +light to admire their unwonted cleanness. + +"I don't plead for myself," continued Wärli. "If you don't love me, that +is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will +marry me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all." + +Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Wärli. + +"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why +didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now." + +"Oh, Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering +it with kisses; "you love some one else--you are already betrothed? And +now it's too late, and you love some one else!" + +"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was +too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet +ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the +can; no, not one little drop! + +"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Wärli, snatching the can out of her +hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know +about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like +this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all +Switzerland." + +"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice; +"the truth and nothing else? Well, Wärli, if you must know . . . how I +grieve to hurt you . . . ." Wärli's heart sank, the tears came into his +eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the +torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!" + +A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract +any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp. +He discovered Wärli embracing his betrothed. + +"I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But +directly afterwards he came back. + +"The matron has just come upstairs," he said. And he hurried away. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +"SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING." + + +MANY of the guests in the foreign quarter had made a start downwards +into the plains; and the Kurhaus itself, though still well filled with +visitors, was every week losing some of its invalids. A few of the +tables looked desolate, and some were not occupied at all, the lingerers +having chosen, now that their party was broken up, to seek the refuge of +another table. So that many stragglers found their way to the English +dining-board, each bringing with him his own national bad manners, and +causing much annoyance to the Disagreeable Man, who was a true John Bull +in his contempt of all foreigners. The English table was, so he said, +like England herself: the haven of other nation's offscourings. + +There were several other signs, too, that the season was far advanced. +The food had fallen off in quality and quantity. The invalids, some of +them better and some of them worse, had become impatient. And plans were +being discussed, where formerly temperatures and coughs and general +symptoms were the usual subjects of conversation! The caretakers, too, +were in a state of agitation; some few keenly anxious to be of to new +pastures; and others, who had perhaps formed attachments, an occurrence +not unusual in Petershof, were wishing to hold back time with both +hands, and were therefore delighted that the weather, which had not +yet broken up, gave no legitimate excuse for immediate departure. + +Pretty Fräulein Müller had gone, leaving her Spanish gentleman quite +disconsolate for the time being. The French Marchioness had returned to +the Parisian circles where she was celebrated for all the domestic +virtues, from which she had been taking such a prolonged holiday in +Petershof. The little French danseuse and her poodle had left for Monte +Carlo. M. Lichinsky and his mother passed on to the Tyrol, where Madame +would no doubt have plenty of opportunities for quarrelling: or not +finding them, would certainly make them without any delay, by this means +keeping herself in good spirits and her son in bad health. There were +some, too, who had hurried off without paying their doctors: being of +course those who had received the greatest attention, and who had +expressed the greatest gratitude in their time of trouble, but who were +of opinion that thankfulness could very well take the place of francs: +an opinion not entirely shared by the doctors themselves. + +The Swedish professor had betaken himself off, with his chessmen and his +chessboard. The little Polish governess who clutched so eagerly at her +paltry winnings, caressing those centimes with the same fondness and +fever that a greater gambler grasps his thousands of francs, she, had +left too; and, indeed, most of Bernardine's acquaintances had gone their +several ways, after six months' constant intercourse, and companionship, +saying good-bye with the same indifference as though they were saying +good-morning or good-afternoon. + +This cold-heartedness struck Bernardine more than once, and she spoke +of it to Robert Allitsen. It was the day before her own departure, and +she had gone down with him to the restaurant, and sat sipping her +coffee, and making her complaint. + +"Such indifference is astonishing, and it is sad too. I cannot +understand it," she said. + +"That is because you are a goose," he replied, pouring out some more +coffee for himself, and as an after thought, for her too. "You pretend +to know something about the human heart, and yet you do not seem to +grasp the fact that most of us are very little interested in other +people: they for us and we for them can spare only a small fraction of +time and attention. We may, perhaps, think to the contrary, believing +that we occupy an important position in their lives; until one day, +when we are feeling most confident of our value, we see an unmistakable +sign, given quite unconsciously by our friends, that we are after all +nothing to them: we can be done without, put on one side, and forgotten +when not present. Then, if we are foolish, we are wounded by this +discovery, and we draw back into ourselves. But if we are wise, we draw +back into ourselves without being wounded: recognizing as fair and +reasonable that people can only have time and attention for their +immediate belongings. Isolated persons have to learn this lesson sooner +or later; and the sooner they do learn it, the better." + +"And you," she asked, "you have learnt this lesson?" + +"Long ago," he said decidedly. + +"You take a hard view of life," she said. + +"Life has not been very bright for me," he answered. "But I own that I +have not cultivated my garden. And now it is too late: the weeds have +sprung up everywhere. Once or twice I have thought lately that I would +begin to clear away the weeds, but I have not the courage now. And +perhaps it does not matter much." + +"I think it does matter," she said gently. "But I am no better than you, +for I have not cultivated my garden." + +"It would not be such a difficult business for you as for me," he said, +smiling sadly. + +They left the restaurant, and sauntered out together. + +"And to-morrow you will be gone," he said. + +"I shall miss you," Bernardine said. + +"That is simply a question of time," he remarked. "I shall probably miss +you at first. But we adjust ourselves easily to altered circumstances: +mercifully. A few days, a few weeks at most, and then that state of +becoming accustomed, called by pious folk, resignation." + +"Then you think that the every-day companionship, the every-day exchange +of thoughts and ideas, counts for little or nothing?" she asked. + +"That is about the colour of it," he answered, in his old gruff way. + +She thought of his words when she was packing: the many pleasant hours +were to count for nothing; for nothing the little bits of fun, the +little displays of temper and vexation, the snatches of serious talk, +the contradictions, and all the petty details of six months' close +companionship. + +He was not different from the others who had parted from her so lightly. +No wonder, then, that he could sympathise with them. + +That last night at Petershof, Bernardine hardened her heart against the +Disagreeable Man. + +"I am glad I am able to do so," she said to herself. "It makes it +easier for me to go." + +Then the vision of a forlorn figure rose before her. And the little +hard heart softened at once. + +In the morning they breakfasted together as usual. There was scarcely +any conversation between them. He asked for her address, and she told +him that she was going back to her uncle who kept the second-hand book- +shop in Stone Street. + +"I will send you a guide-book from the Tyrol," he explained. "I shall +be going there in a week or two to see my mother." + +"I hope you will find her in good health," she said. + +Then it suddenly flashed across her mind what he had told her about his +one great sacrifice for his mother's sake. She looked up at him, and he +met her glance without flinching. + +He said good-bye to her at the foot of the staircase. + +It was the first time she had ever shaken hands with him. + +"Good-bye," he said gently. "Good luck to you." + +"Good-bye," she answered. + +He went up the stairs, and turned round as though he wished to say +something more. But he changed his mind, and kept his own counsel. + +An hour later Bernardine left Petershof. Only the concierge of the +Kurhaus saw her off at the station. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A LOVE-LETTER. + + +TWO days after Bernardine had left Petershof, the snows began to melt. +Nothing could be drearier than that process: nothing more desolate than +the outlook. + +The Disagreeable Man sat in his bedroom trying to read Carpenter's +Anatomy. It failed to hold him. Then he looked out of the window, and +listened to the dripping of the icicles. At last he took a pen, and +wrote as follows: + +"LITTLE COMRADE, LITTLE PLAYMATE." + +"I could not believe that you were really going. When you first said +that you would soon be leaving, I listened with unconcern, because it +did not seem possible that the time could come when we should not be +together; that the days would come and go, and that I should not know +how you were; whether you were better, and more hopeful about your life +and your work, or whether the old misery of indifference and ill-health +was still clinging to you; whether your voice was strong as of one who +had slept well and felt refreshed, or whether it was weak like that of +one who had watched through the long night. + +"It did not seem possible that such a time could come. Many cruel things +have happened to me, as to scores of others, but this is the most cruel +of all. Against my wish and against my knowledge, you have crept into my +life as a necessity, and now I have to give you up. You are better, God +bless you, and you go back to a fuller life, and to carry on your work, +and to put to account those talents which no one realises more than I do; +and as for myself, God help me, I am left to wither away. + +"You little one, you dear little one, I never wished to love you. I had +never loved any one, never drawn near to any one. I have lived lonely +all my young life; for I am only a young man yet. I said to myself time +after time: 'I will not love her. It will not do me any good, nor her +any good.' And then in my state of health, what right had I to think of +marriage, and making a home for myself? Of course that was out of the +question. And then I thought, that because I was a doomed man, cut off +from the pleasures which make a lovely thing of life, it did not follow +that I might not love you in my own quiet way, hugging my secret to +myself, until the love became all the greater because it was my secret. +I reasoned about it too: it could not harm you that I loved you. No one +could be the worse for being loved. So little by little I yielded myself +this luxury; and my heart once so dried up, began to flower again; yes, +little one, you will smile when I tell you that my heart broke out into +flower. + +"When I think of it all now, I am not sorry that I let myself go. At +least I have learnt what I knew nothing of before: now I understand what +people mean when they say that love adds a dignity to life which nothing +else can give. That dignity is mine now, nothing can take it from me; +it is my own. You are my very own; I love everything about you. From the +beginning I recognized that you were clever and capable. Though I often +made fun of what you said, that was simply a way I had; and when I saw +you did not mind, I continued in that way, hoping always to vex you; +your good temper provoked me, because I knew that you made allowances +for me being a Petershof invalid. You would never have suffered a strong +man to criticize you as I did; you would have flown at him, for you are +a feverish little child: not a quiet woolly lamb. At first I was wild +that you should make allowances for me. And then I gave in, as weak men +are obliged. When you came, I saw that your troubles and sufferings +would make you bitter. Do you know who helped to cure you? _It was I_. +I have seen that often before. That is the one little bit of good I have +done in the world: I have helped to cure cynicism. You were shocked at +the things I said, and you were saved. I did not save you intentionally, +so I am not posing as a philanthropist. I merely mention that you came +here hard, and you went back tender. That was partly because you have +lived in the City of Suffering. Some people live there and learn +nothing. But you would learn to feel only too much. I wish that your +capacity for feeling were less; but then you would not be yourself, +your present self I mean, for you have changed even since I have known +you. Every week you seemed to become more gentle. You thought me rough +and gruff at parting, little comrade: I meant to be so. If you had only +known, there was a whole world of tenderness for you in my heart. I +could not trust myself to be tender to you; you would have guessed my +secret. And I wanted you to go away undisturbed. You do not feel things +lightly, and it was best for you that you should harden your heart +against me. + +"If you could harden your heart against me. But I am not sure about +that. I believe that . . . . Ah, well, I'm a foolish fellow; but some day, +dear, I'll tell you what I think . . . . I have treasured many of your +sayings in my memory. I can never be as though I had never known you. +Many of your words I have repeated to myself afterwards until they +seemed to represent my own thoughts. I specially remember what you +said about God having made us lonely, so that we might be obliged to +turn to him. For we are all lonely, though some of us not quite so much +as others. You yourself spoke often of being lonely. Oh, my own little +one! Your loneliness is nothing compared to mine. How often I could +have told you that. + +"I have never seen any of your work, but I think you have now something +to say to others, and that you will say it well. And if you have the +courage to be simple when it comes to the point, you will succeed. And +I believe you will have the courage, I believe everything of you. + +"But whatever you do or do not, you will always be the same to me: my +own little one, my very own. I have been waiting all my life for you; +and I have given you my heart entire. If you only knew that, you could +not call yourself lonely any more. If any one was ever loved, it is you, +dear heart. + +"Do you remember how those peasants at the Gasthaus thought we were +betrothed? I thought that might annoy you; and though I was relieved at +the time, still, later on, I wished you had been annoyed. That would +have shown that you were not indifferent. From that time my love for +you grew apace. You must not mind me telling you so often; I must go on +telling you. Just think, dear, this is the first love-letter I have ever +written: and every word of love is a whole world of love. I shall never +call my life a failure now. I may have failed in everything else, but +not in loving. Oh, little one, it can't be that I am not to be with you, +and not to have you for my own! And yet how can that be? It is not I who +may hold you in my arms. Some strong man must love and wrap you round +with tenderness and softness. You little independent child, in spite of +all your wonderful views and theories, you will soon be glad to lean on +some one for comfort and sympathy. And then perhaps that troubled little +spirit of yours may find its rest. Would to God I were that strong man! + +"But because I love you, my own little darling, I will not spoil your +life. I won't ask you to give me even one thought. But if I believed +that it were of any good to say a prayer, I should pray that you may +soon find that strong man; for it is not well for any of us to stand +alone. There comes a time when the loneliness is more than we can bear. + +"There is one thing I want you to know: indeed I am not the gruff fellow +I have so often seemed. Do believe that. Do you remember how I told you +that I dreamed of losing you? And now the dream has come true. I am +always looking for you, and cannot find you. + +"You have been very good to me; so patient, and genial, and frank. No +one before has ever been so good. Even if I did not love you, I should +say that. + +"But I do love you, no one can take that from me: it is my own dignity, +the crown of my life. Such a poor life . . . no, no, I won't say that +now. I cannot pity myself now . . . no, I cannot . . . ." + +The Disagreeable Man stopped writing, and the pen dropped on the table. + +He buried his tear-stained face in his hands. He cried his heart out, +this Disagreeable Man. + +Then he took the letter which he had just been writing, and he tore it +into fragments. + +END OF PART I. + + + + +PART II. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. + + +IT was now more than three weeks since Bernardine's return to London. +She had gone back to her old home, at her uncle's second-hand book-shop. +She spent her time in dusting the books, and arranging them in some +kind of order; for old Zerviah Holme had ceased to interest himself +much in his belongings, and sat in the little inner room reading as +usual Gibbon's "History of Rome." Customers might please themselves +about coming: Zerviah Holme had never cared about amassing money, and +now he cared even less than before. A frugal breakfast, a frugal dinner, +a box full of snuff, and a shelf full of Gibbon were the old man's only +requirements: an undemanding life, and therefore a loveless one; since +the less we ask for, the less we get. + +When Malvina his wife died, people said: "He will miss her." + +But he did not seem to miss her: he took his breakfast, his pinch of +snuff, his Gibbon, in precisely the same way as before, and in the same +quantities. + +When Bernardine first fell ill, people said: "He will be sorry. He is +fond of her in his own queer way." + +But he did not seem to be sorry. He did not understand anything about +illness. The thought of it worried him; so he put it from him. He +remembered vaguely that Bernardine's father had suddenly become ill, +that his powers had all failed him, and that he lingered on, just a +wreck of humanity, and then died. That was twenty years ago. Then he +thought of Bernardine, and said to himself, "History repeats itself." +That was all. + +Unkind? No; for when it was told him that she must go away, he looked +at her wonderingly, and then went out. It was very rarely that he went +out. He came back with fifty pounds. + +"When that is done," he told her, "I can find more." + +When she went away, people said: "He will be lonely." + +But he did not seem to be lonely. They asked him once, and he said: +"I always have Gibbon." + +And when she came back, they said: "He will be glad." + +But her return seemed to make no difference to him. + +He looked at her in his usual sightless manner, and asked her what she +intended to do. + +"I shall dust the books," she said. + +"Ah, I dare say they want it," he remarked. + +"I shall get a little teaching to do," she continued. "And I shall take +care of you." + +"Ah," he said vaguely. He did not understand what she meant. She had +never been very near to him, and he had never been very near to her. +He had taken but little notice of her comings and goings; she had either +never tried to win his interest or had failed: probably the latter. Now +she was going to take care of him. + +This was the home to which Bernardine had returned. She came back with +many resolutions to help to make his old age bright. She looked back +now, and saw how little she had given of herself to her aunt and her +uncle. Aunt Malvina was dead, and Bernardine did not regret her. Uncle +Zerviah was here still; she would be tender with him, and win his +affection. She thought she could not begin better than by looking after +his books. Each one was dusted carefully. The dingy old shop was +restored to cleanliness. Bernardine became interested in her task. +"I will work up the business," she thought. She did not care in the +least about the books; she never looked into them except to clean them; +but she was thankful to have the occupation at hand: something to help +her over a difficult time. For the most trying part of an illness is +when we are ill no longer; when there is no excuse for being idle and +listless; when, in fact, we could work if we would: then is the moment +for us to begin on anything which presents itself, until we have the +courage and the inclination to go back to our own particular work: that +which we have longed to do, and about which we now care nothing. + +So Bernardine dusted books and sometimes sold them. All the time she +thought of the Disagreeable Man. She missed him in her life. She had +never loved before, and she loved him. The forlorn figure rose before +her, and her eyes filled with tears. Sometimes the tears fell on the +books, and spotted them. + +Still, on the whole she was bright; but she found things difficult. She +had lost her old enthusiasms, and nothing yet had taken their place. +She went back to the circle of her acquaintances, and found that she +had slipped away from touch with them. Whilst she had been ill, they +had been busily at work on matters social and educational and political. + +She thought them hard, the women especially: they thought her weak. +They were disappointed in her; she was now looking for the more human +qualities in them, and she, too, was disappointed. + +"You have changed," they said to her: "but then of course you have been +ill, haven't you?" + +With these strong, active people, to be ill and useless is a reproach. +And Bernardine felt it as such. But she had changed, and she herself +perceived it in many ways. It was not that she was necessarily better, +but that she was different; probably more human, and probably less self- +confident. She had lived in a world of books, and she had burst through +that bondage and come out into a wider and a freer land. + +New sorts of interests came into her life. What she had lost in +strength, she had gained in tenderness. Her very manner was gentler, +her mode of speech less assertive. At least, this was the criticism of +those who had liked her but little before her illness. + +"She has learnt," they said amongst themselves. And they were not +scholars. They _knew_. + +These, two or three of them, drew her nearer to them. She was alone +there with the old man, and, though better, needed care. They mothered +her as well as they could, at first timidly, and then with that sweet +despotism which is for us all an easy yoke to bear. They were drawn to +her as they had never been drawn before. They felt that she was no +longer analysing them, weighing them in her intellectual balance, and +finding them wanting; so they were free with her now, and revealed to +her qualities at which she had never guessed before. + +As the days went on, Zerviah began to notice that things were somehow +different. He found some flowers near his table. He was reading about +Nero at the time; but he put aside his Gibbon, and fondled the flowers +instead. Bernardine did not know that. + +One morning when she was out, he went into the shop and saw a great +change there. Some one had been busy at work. The old man was pleased: +he loved his books, though of late he had neglected them. + +"She never used to take any interest in them," he said to himself. +"I wonder why she does now?" + +He began to count upon seeing her. When she came back from her outings, +he was glad. But she did not know. If he had given any sign of welcome +to her during those first difficult days, it would have been a great +encouragement to her. + +He watched her feeding the sparrows. One day when she was not there, he +went and did the same. Another day when she had forgotten, he surprised +her by reminding her. + +"You have forgotten to feed the sparrows," he said. "They must be quite +hungry." + +That seemed to break the ice a little. The next morning when she was +arranging some books in the old shop, he came in and watched her. + +"It is a comfort to have you," he said. That was all he said, but +Bernardine flushed with pleasure. + +"I wish I had been more to you all these years," she said gently. + +He did not quite take that in: and returned hastily to Gibbon. + +Then they began to stroll out together. They had nothing to talk about: +he was not interested in the outside world, and she was not interested +in Roman History. But they were trying to get nearer to each other: they +had lived years together, but they had never advanced a step; now they +were trying, she consciously, he unconsciously. But it was a slow +process, and pathetic, as everything human is. + +"If we could only find some subject which we both liked," Bernardine +thought to herself. "That might knit us together." + +Well, they found a subject; though, perhaps, it was an unlikely one. +The cart-horses: those great, strong, patient toilers of the road +attracted their attention, and after that no walk was without its +pleasure or interest. The brewers' horses were the favourites, though +there were others, too, which met with their approval. He began to know +and recognize them. He was almost like a child in his newfound interest. +On Whit Monday they both went to the cart-horse parade in Regent's Park. +They talked about the enjoyment for days afterwards. + +"Next year," he told her, "we must subscribe to the fund, even if we +have to sell a book." + +He did not like to sell his books: he parted with them painfully, as +some people part with their illusions. + +Bernardine bought a paper for herself every day; but one evening she +came in without one. She had been seeing after some teaching, and had +without any difficulty succeeded in getting some temporary light work +at one of the high schools. She forgot to buy her newspaper. + +The old man noticed this. He put on his shabby felt hat, and went down +the street, and brought in a copy of the _Daily News_. + +"I don't remember what you like, but will this do?" he asked. + +He was quite proud of himself for showing her this attention, almost as +proud as the Disagreeable Man, when he did something kind and thoughtful. + +Bernardine thought of him, and the tears came into her eyes at once. +When did she not think of him? Then she glanced at the front sheet, and +in the death column her eye rested on his name: and she read that Robert +Allitsen's mother had passed away. So the Disagreeable Man had won his +freedom at last. His words echoed back to her: + +"But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt anything else, I have +learnt how to wait. And some day I shall be free. And then . . . ." + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK. + + +AFTER the announcement of Mrs. Allitsen's death, Bernardine lived in a +misery of suspense. Every day she scanned the obituary, fearing to find +the record of another death, fearing and yet wishing to know. The +Disagreeable Man had yearned for his freedom these many years, and now +he was at liberty to do what he chose with his poor life. It was of no +value to him. Many a time she sat and shuddered. Many a time she began +to write to him. Then she remembered that after all he had cared nothing +for her companionship. He would not wish to hear from her. And besides, +what had she to say to him? + +A feeling of desolation came over her. It was not enough for her to take +care of the old man who was drawing nearer to her every day; nor was it +enough for her to dust the books, and serve any chance customers who +might look in. In the midst of her trouble she remembered some of her +old ambitions; and she turned to them for comfort as we turn to old +friends. + +"I will try to begin my book," she said to herself. "If I can only get +interested in it, I shall forget my anxiety!" + +But the love of her work had left her. Bernardine fretted. She sat in +the old bookshop, her pen unused, her paper uncovered. She was very +miserable. + +Then one evening when she was feeling that it was of no use trying to +force herself to begin her book, she took her pen suddenly, and wrote +the following prologue. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE. + + +FAILURE and Success passed away from Earth, and found themselves in a +Foreign Land. Success still wore her laurel-wreath which she had won on +Earth. There was a look of ease about her whole appearance; and there +was a smile of pleasure and satisfaction on her face, as though she knew +she had done well and had deserved her honours. + +Failure's head was bowed: no laurel-wreath encircled it. Her face was +wan, and pain-engraven. She had once been beautiful and hopeful, but +she had long since lost both hope and beauty. They stood together, +these two, waiting for an audience with the Sovereign of the Foreign +Land. An old grey-haired man came to them and asked their names. + +"I am Success," said Success, advancing a step forward, and smiling at +him, and pointing to her laurel-wreath. + +He shook his head. + +"Ah," he said, "do not be too confident. Very often things go by +opposites in this land. What you call Success, we often call Failure; +what you call Failure, we call Success. Do you see those two men waiting +there? The one nearer to us was thought to be a good man in your world; +the other was generally accounted bad. But here we call the bad man +good, and the good man bad. That seems strange to you. Well then, look +yonder. You considered that statesman to be sincere; but we say he was +insincere. We chose as our poet-laureate a man at whom your world +scoffed. Ay, and those flowers yonder: for us they have a fragrant +charm; we love to see them near us. But you do not even take the trouble +to pluck them from the hedges where they grow in rich profusion. So, you +see, what we value as a treasure, you do not value at all." + +Then he turned to Failure. + +"And your name?" he asked kindly, though indeed he must have known it. + +"I am Failure," she said sadly. + +He took her by the hand. + +"Come, now, Success," he said to her: "let me lead you into the +Presence-Chamber." + +Then she who had been called Failure, and was now called Success, +lifted up her bowed head, and raised her weary frame, and smiled at +the music of her new name. And with that smile she regained her beauty +and her hope. And hope having come back to her, all her strength +returned. + +"But what of her," she asked regretfully of the old grey-haired man; +"must she be left?" + +"She will learn," the old man whispered. "She is learning already. +Come, now: we must not linger." + +So she of the new name passed into the Presence-Chamber. + +But the Sovereign said: + +"The world needs you, dear and honoured worker. You know your real +name: do not heed what the world may call you. Go back and work, but +take with you this time unconquerable hope." + +So she went back and worked, taking with her unconquerable hope, and +the sweet remembrance of the Sovereign's words, and the gracious music +of her Real Name. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM. + + +THE morning after Bernardine began her book, she and old Zerviah were +sitting together in the shop. He had come from the little inner room +where he had been reading Gibbon for the last two hours. He still held +the volume in his hand; but he did not continue reading, he watched her +arranging the pages of a dilapidated book. + +Suddenly she looked up from her work. + +"Uncle Zerviah," she said brusquely, "you have lived through a long +life, and must have passed through many different experiences. Was +there ever a time when you cared for people rather than books?" + +"Yes," he answered a little uneasily. He was not accustomed to have +questions asked of him. + +"Tell me about it," she said. + +"It was long ago," he said half dreamily, "long before I married +Malvina. And she died. That was all." + +"That was all," repeated Bernardine, looking at him wonderingly. +Then she drew nearer to him. + +"And you have loved, Uncle Zerviah? And you were loved?" + +"Yes, indeed," he answered, softly. + +"Then you would not laugh at me if I were to unburden my heart to you?" + +For answer, she felt the touch of his old hand on her head. And thus +encouraged, she told him the story of the Disagreeable Man. She told him +how she had never before loved any one until she loved the Disagreeable +Man. + +It was all very quietly told, in a simple and dignified manner: +nevertheless, for all that, it was an unburdening of her heart; her +listener being an old scholar who had almost forgotten the very name of +love. + +She was still talking, and he was still listening, when the shop door +creaked. Zerviah crept quietly away, and Bernardine looked up. + +The Disagreeable Man stood at the counter. + +"You little thing," he said, "I have come to see you. It is eight years +since I was in England." + +Bernardine leaned over the counter. + +"And you ought not to be here now," she said, looking at his thin face. +He seemed to have shrunk away since she had last seen him. + +"I am free to do what I choose," he said. "My mother is dead." + +"I know," Bernardine said gently. "But you are not free." + +He made no answer to that, but slipped into the chair. + +"You look tired," he said. "What have you been doing?" + +"I have been dusting the books," she answered, smiling at him. "You +remember you told me I should be content to do that. The very oldest +and shabbiest have had my tenderest care. I found the shop in disorder. +You see it now." + +"I should not call it particularly tidy now," he said grimly. "Still, +I suppose you have done your best. Well, and what else?" + +"I have been trying to take care of my old uncle," she said. "We are +just beginning to understand each other a little. And he is beginning +to feel glad to have me. When I first discovered that, the days became +easier to me. It makes us into dignified persons when we find out that +there is a place for us to fill." + +"Some people never find it out," he said. + +"Probably, like myself, they went on for a long time, without caring," +she answered. "I think I have had more luck than I deserve." + +"Well," said the Disagreeable Man. "And you are glad to take up your +life again?" + +"No," she said quietly. "I have not got as far as that yet. But I +believe that after some little time I may be glad. I hope so, I am +working for that. Sometimes I begin to have a keen interest in +everything. I wake up with an enthusiasm. After about two hours I have +lost it again." + +"Poor little child," he said tenderly. "I, too know what that is. But +you _will_ get back to gladness: not the same kind of satisfaction as +before; but some other satisfaction, that compensation which is said +to be included in the scheme." + +"And I have begun my book," she said, pointing to a few sheets lying on +the counter: that is to say, I have written the Prologue." + +"Then the dusting of the books has not sufficed?" he said, scanning her +curiously. + +"I wanted not to think of myself," Bernardine, said. "Now that I have +begun it, I shall enjoy going on with it. I hope it will be a companion +to me." + +"I wonder whether you will make a failure or a success of it?" he +remarked. "I wish I could have seen." + +"So you will," she said. "I shall finish it, and you will read it in +Petershof." + +"I shall not be going back to Petershof," he said. "Why should I go +there now?" + +"For the same reason that you went there eight years ago," she said. + +"I went there for my mother's sake," he said. + +"Then you will go there now for my sake," she said deliberately. + +He looked up quickly. + +"Little Bernardine," he cried, "my Little Bernardine--is it possible +that you care what becomes of me?" + +She had been leaning against the counter, and now she raised herself, +and stood erect, a proud, dignified little figure. + +"Yes, I do care," she said simply, and with true earnestness. "I care +with all my heart. And even if I did not care, you know you would not +be free. No one is free. You know that better than I do. We do not +belong to ourselves: there are countless people depending on us, people +whom we have never seen, and whom we never shall see. What we do, +decides what they will be." + +He still did not speak. + +"But it is not for those others that I plead," she continued. "I plead +for myself. I can't spare you, indeed, indeed I can't spare you! . . ." + +Her voice trembled, but she went on bravely: + +"So you will go back to the mountains," she said. "You will live out +your life like a man. Others may prove themselves cowards, but the +Disagreeable Man has a better part to play." + +He still did not speak. Was it that he could not trust himself to words? +But in that brief time, the thoughts which passed through his mind were +such as to overwhelm him. A picture rose up before him: a picture of a +man and woman leading their lives together, each happy in the other's +love; not a love born of fancy, but a love based on comradeship and true +understanding of the soul. The picture faded, and the Disagreeable Man +raised his eyes and looked at the little figure standing near him. + +"Little child, little child," he said wearily, "since it is your wish, +I will go back to the mountains." + +Then he bent over the counter, and put his hand on hers. + +"I will come and see you to-morrow," he said. "I think there are one or +two things I want to say to you." + +The next moment he was gone. + +In the afternoon of that same day Bernardine went to the City. She was +not unhappy: she had been making plans for herself. She would work hard, +and fill her life as full as possible. There should be no room for +unhealthy thought. She would go and spend her holidays in Petershof. +There would be pleasure in that for him and for her. She would tell him +so to-morrow. She knew he would be glad. + +"Above all," she said to herself, "there shall be no room for unhealthy +thought. I must cultivate my garden." + +That was what she was thinking of at four in the afternoon: how she +could best cultivate her garden. + +At five she was lying unconscious in the accident-ward of the New +Hospital: she had been knocked down by a waggon, and terribly injured. + +She will not recover, the Doctor said to the nurse. "You see she is +sinking rapidly. Poor little thing!" + +At six she regained consciousness, and opened her eyes. The nurse bent +over her. Then she whispered: + +"Tell the Disagreeable Man how I wish I could have seen him to-morrow. +We had so much to say to each other. And now . . . ." + +The brown eyes looked at the nurse so entreatingly. It was a long time +before she could forget the pathos of those brown eyes. + +A few minutes later, she made another sign as though she wished to +speak. Nurse Katharine bent nearer. Then she whispered: + +"Tell the Disagreeable Man to go back to the mountains, and begin to +build his bridge: it must be strong and . . . ." + +Bernardine died. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE. + + +ROBERT ALLITSEN came to the old book-shop to see Zerviah Holme before +returning to the mountains. He found him reading Gibbon. These two men +had stood by Bernardine's grave. + +"I was beginning to know her," the old man said. + +"I have always known her," the young man said. "I cannot remember a +time when she has not been part of my life." + +"She loved you," Zerviah said. "She was telling me so the very morning +when you came." + +Then, with a tenderness which was almost foreign to him, Zerviah told +Robert Allitsen how Bernardine had opened her heart to him. She had +never loved any one before: but she had loved the Disagreeable Man. + +"I did not love him because I was sorry for him," she had said. "I +loved him for himself." + +Those were her very words. + +"Thank you," said the Disagreeable Man. "And God bless you for telling +me." + +Then he added: + +"There were some few loose sheets of paper on the counter. She had +begun her book. May I have them?" + +Zerviah placed them in his hand. + +"And this photograph," the old man said kindly. "I will spare it for +you." + +The picture of the little thin eager face was folded up with the papers. + +The two men parted. + +Zerviah Holme went back to his Roman History. The Disagreeable Man went +back to the mountains: to live his life out there, and to build his +bridge, as we all do, whether consciously or unconsciously. If it +breaks down, we build it again. + +"We will build it stronger this time," we say to ourselves. + +So we begin once more. + +We are very patient. + +And meanwhile the years pass. + + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Ships That Pass In The Night, by Beatrice Harraden + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 12476-8.txt or 12476-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/4/7/12476/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: + https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + + diff --git a/old/12476-8.zip b/old/12476-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1dc20e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12476-8.zip diff --git a/old/12476.txt b/old/12476.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7d5fe06 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12476.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5148 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Ships That Pass In The Night, by Beatrice Harraden + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ships That Pass In The Night + +Author: Beatrice Harraden + +Release Date: May 30, 2004 [EBook #12476] +[Last updated: October 20, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT *** + + + + + + + + + +SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. + +CONTENTS. + +PART I. + +I. A NEW-COMER + +II. WHICH CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS + +III. MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS HER LESSON + +IV. CONCERNING WARLI AND MARIE + +V. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN + +VI. THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE + +VII. BERNARDINE + +VIII. THE STORY MOVES ON AT LAST + +IX. BERNARDINE PREACHES + +X. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT + +XI. "IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE" + +XII. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN MAKES A LOAN + +XIII. A DOMESTIC SCENE + +XIV. CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS + +XV. WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING + +XVI. WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE + +XVII. A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES + +XVIII. A BETROTHAL + +XIX. SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING + +XX. A LOVE-LETTER + +PART II. + +I. THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS + +II. BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK + +III. FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE + +IV. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM + +V. THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE + + + + +SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. + + + + +PART I. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A NEW-COMER. + + +"YES, indeed," remarked one of the guests at the English table, "yes, +indeed, we start life thinking that we shall build a great cathedral, +a crowning glory to architecture, and we end by contriving a mud hut!" + +"I am glad you think so well of human nature," said the Disagreeable Man, +suddenly looking up from the newspaper which he always read during meal- +time. "I should be more inclined to say that we end by being content to +dig a hole, and get into it, like the earth men." + +A silence followed these words; the English community at that end of the +table was struck with astonishment at hearing the Disagreeable Man speak. +The few sentences he had spoken during the last four years at Petershof +were on record; this was decidedly the longest of them all. + +"He is going to speak again," whispered beautiful Mrs. Reffold to her +neighbour. + +The Disagreeable Man once more looked up from his newspaper. + +"Please, pass me the Yorkshire relish," he said in his rough way to a +girl sitting next to him. + +The spell was broken, and the conversation started afresh. But the girl +who had passed the Yorkshire relish sat silent and listless, her food +untouched, and her wine untasted. She was small and thin; her face +looked haggard. She was a new-comer, and had, indeed, arrived at +Petershof only two hours before the _table-d'hote_ bell rang. But there +did not seem to be any nervous shrinking in her manner, nor any shyness +at having to face the two hundred and fifty guests of the Kurhaus. She +seemed rather to be unaware of their presence; or, if aware of, +certainly indifferent to the scrutiny under which she was being placed. +She was recalled to reality by the voice of the Disagreeable Man. She +did not hear what he said, but she mechanically stretched out her hand +and passed him the mustard-pot. + +"Is that what you asked for?" she said half dreamily; "or was it the +water-bottle?" + +"You are rather deaf, I should think," said the Disagreeable Man +placidly. "I only remarked that it was a pity you were not eating your +dinner. Perhaps the scrutiny of the two hundred and fifty guests in +this civilized place is a vexation to you." + +"I did not know they were scrutinizing," she answered; "and even if +they are, what does it matter to me? I am sure I am quite too tired to +care." + +"Why have you come here?" asked the Disagreeable Man suddenly. + +"Probably for the same reason as yourself," she said; "to get better +or well." + +"You won't get better," he answered cruelly; "I know your type well; +you burn yourselves out quickly. And--my God--how I envy you!" + +"So you have pronounced my doom," she said, looking at him intently. +Then she laughed but there was no merriment in the laughter. + +"Listen," she said, as she bent nearer to him; "because you are +hopeless, it does not follow that you should try to make others +hopeless too. You have drunk deep of the cup of poison; I can see that. +To hand the cup on to others is the part of a coward." + +She walked past the English table, and the Polish table, and so out of +the Kurhaus dining-hall. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS. + + +IN an old second-hand bookshop in London, an old man sat reading +Gibbon's History of Rome. He did not put down his book when the postman +brought him a letter. He just glanced indifferently at the letter, and +impatiently at the postman. Zerviah Holme did not like to be interrupted +when he was reading Gibbon; and as he was always reading Gibbon, an +interruption was always regarded by him as an insult. + +About two hours afterwards, he opened the letter, and learnt that his +niece, Bernardine, had arrived safely in Petershof, and that she +intended to get better and come home strong. He tore up the letter, +and instinctively turned to the photograph on the mantelpiece. It was +the picture of a face young and yet old, sad and yet with possibilities +of merriment, thin and drawn and almost wrinkled, and with piercing eyes +which, even in the dull lifelessness of the photograph, seemed to be +burning themselves away. Not a pleasing nor a good face; yet intensely +pathetic because of its undisguised harassment. + +Zerviah looked at it for a moment. + +"She has never been much to either of us," he said to himself. "And yet, +when Malvina was alive, I used to think that she was hard on Bernardine. +I believe I said so once or twice. But Malvina had her own way of +looking at things. Well, that is over now." + +He then, with characteristic speed, dismissed all thoughts which did not +relate to Roman History; and the remembrance of Malvina, his wife, and +Bernardine, his niece, took up an accustomed position in the background +of his mind. + +Bernardine had suffered a cheerless childhood in which dolls and toys +took no leading part. She had no affection to bestow on any doll, nor +any woolly lamb, nor apparently on any human person; unless, perhaps, +there was the possibility of a friendly inclination towards Uncle +Zerviah, who would not have understood the value of any deeper feeling, +and did not therefore call the child cold-hearted and unresponsive, as +he might well have done. + +This she certainly was, judged by the standard of other children; but +then no softening influences had been at work during her tenderest +years. Aunt Malvina knew as much about sympathy as she did about the +properties of an ellipse; and even the fairies had failed to win little +Bernardine. At first they tried with loving patience what they might do +for her; they came out of their books, and danced and sang to her, and +whispered sweet stories to her, at twilight, the fairies' own time. But +she would have none of them, for all their gentle persuasion. So they +gave up trying to please her, and left her as they had found her, +loveless. What can be said of a childhood which even the fairies have +failed to touch with the warm glow of affection? + +Such a little restless spirit, striving to express itself now in this +direction, now in that; yet always actuated by the same constant force, +_the desire for work_. Bernardine seemed to have no special wish to be +useful to others; she seemed just to have a natural tendency to work, +even as others have a natural tendency to play. She was always in +earnest; life for little Bernardine meant something serious. + +Then the years went by. She grew up and filled her life with many +interests and ambitions. She was at least a worker, if nothing else; +she had always been a diligent scholar, and now she took her place as an +able teacher. She was self-reliant, and, perhaps, somewhat conceited. +But, at least, Bernardine the young woman had learnt something which +Bernardine the young child had not been able to learn: she learnt how +to smile. It took her, about six and twenty years to learn; still, +some people take longer than that; in fact, many never learn. This is +a brief summary of Bernardine Holme's past. + +Then, one day, when she was in the full swing of her many engrossing +occupations: teaching, writing articles for newspapers, attending +socialistic meetings, and taking part in political discussions--she was +essentially a modern product, this Bernardine--one day she fell ill. +She lingered in London for some time, and then she went to Petershof. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS A LESSON. + + +PETERSHOF was a winter resort for consumptive patients, though, indeed, +many people simply needed the change of a bracing climate went there to +spend a few months; and came, away wonderfully better for the mountain +air. This was what Bernardine Holme hoped to do; she was broken down in +every way, but it was thought that a prolonged stay in Petershof might +help her back to a reasonable amount of health, or, at least, prevent +her from slipping into further decline. She had come alone, because she +had no relations except that old uncle, and no money to pay any friend +who might have been willing to come with her. But she probably cared +very little, and the morning after her arrival, she strolled out by +herself, investigating the place where she was about to spend six months. +She was dragging herself along, when she met the Disagreeable Man. She +stopped him. He was not accustomed to be stopped by any one, and he +looked rather astonished. + +"You were not very cheering last night," she said to him. + +"I believe I am not generally considered to be lively," he answered, as +he knocked the snow off his boot. + +"Still, I am sorry I spoke to you as I did," she went on frankly. "It +was foolish of me to mind what you said." + +He made no reference to his own remark, and passing on his way again, +when he turned back and walked with her. + +"I have been here nearly seven years," he said and there was a ring of +sadness in his voice as he spoke, which he immediately corrected. "If +you want to know anything about the place, I can tell you. If you are +able to walk, I can show you some lovely spots, where you will not be +bothered with people. I can take you to a snow fairy-land. If you are +sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not +all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig the +snow away, you will find the tiny buds nestling in their white nursery. +If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you may always see the great +mountains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me. +You are not too ill but that they may be a happiness to you also." + +"Nothing can be much of a happiness to me," she said, half to herself, +and her lips quivered. "I have had to give up so much: all my work, +all my ambitions." + +"You are not the only one who has had to do that," he said sharply. +"Why make a fuss? Things arrange themselves, and eventually we adjust +ourselves to the new arrangement. A great deal of caring and grieving, +phase one; still more caring and grieving, phase two; less caring and +grieving, phase three; no further feeling whatsoever, phase four. +Mercifully I am at phase four. You are at phase one. Make a quick +journey over the stages." + +He turned and left her, and she strolled along, thinking of his words, +wondering how long it would take her to arrive at his indifference. +She had always looked upon indifference as paralysis of the soul, and +paralysis meant death, nay, was worse than death. And here was this man, +who had obviously suffered both mentally and physically, telling her +that the only sensible course was to learn not to care. How could she +learn not to care? All her life long she had studied and worked and +cultivated herself in every direction in the hope of being able to take +a high place in literature, or, in any case, to do something in life +distinctly better than what other people did. When everything was coming +near to her grasp, when there seemed a fair chance of realizing her +ambitions, she had suddenly fallen ill, broken up so entirely in every +way, that those who knew her when she was well, could scarcely recognize +her now that she was ill. The doctors spoke of an overstrained nervous +system: the pestilence of these modern days; they spoke of rest, change +of work and scene, bracing air. She might regain her vitality; she might +not. Those who had played themselves out must pay the penalty. She was +thinking of her whole history, pitying herself profoundly, coming to +the conclusion, after true human fashion, that she was the worst-used +person on earth, and that no one but herself knew what disappointed +ambitions were; she was thinking of all this, and looking profoundly +miserable and martyr-like, when some one called her by her name. She +looked round and saw one of the English ladies belonging to the Kurhaus; +Bernardine had noticed her the previous night. She seemed in capital +spirits, and had three or four admirers waiting on her very words. +She was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a superb fur-trimmed cloak, +a woman of splendid bearing and address. Bernardine looked a +contemptible little piece of humanity beside her. Some such impression +conveyed itself to the two men who were walking with Mrs. Reffold. +They looked at the one woman, and then at the other, and smiled at each +other, as men do smile on such occasions. + +"I am going to speak to this little thing," Mrs. Reffold had said to +her two companions before they came near Bernardine. "I must find out +who she is, and where she comes from. And, fancy, she has come quite +alone. I have inquired. How hopelessly out of fashion she dresses. +And what a hat!" + +"I should not take the trouble to speak to her," said one of the men. +"She may fasten herself on to you. You know what a bore that is." + +"Oh, I can easily snub any one if I wish," replied Mrs. Reffold, +rather disdainfully. + +So she hastened up to Bernardine, and held out her well-gloved hand. + +"I had not a chance of speaking to you last night, Miss Holme," she +said. "You retired so early. I hope you have rested after your journey. +You seemed quite worn out." + +"Thank you," said Bernardine, looking admiringly at the beautiful woman, +and envying her, just as all plain women envy their handsome sisters. + +"You are not alone, I suppose?" continued Mrs. Reffold. + +"Yes, quite alone," answered Bernardine. + +"But you are evidently acquainted with Mr. Allitsen, your neighbour at +table," said Mrs. Reffold; "so you will not feel quite lonely here. +It is a great advantage to have a friend at a place like this." + +"I never saw him before last night," said Bernardine. + +"Is it possible?" said Mrs. Reffold, in her pleasantest voice. "Then +you _have_ made a triumph of the Disagreeable Man. He very rarely deigns +to talk with any of us. He does not even appear to see us. He sits +quietly and reads. It would be interesting to hear what his conversation +is like. I should be quite amused to know what you did talk about." + +"I dare say you would," said Bernardine quietly. + +Then Mrs. Reffold, wishing to screen her inquisitiveness, plunged into a +description of Petershof life, speaking enthusiastically about +everything, except the scenery, which she did not mention. After a time +she ventured to begin once more taking soundings. But some how or other, +those bright eyes of Bernardine, which looked at her so searchingly, +made her a little nervous, and, perhaps, a little indiscreet. + +"Your father will miss you," she said tentatively. + +"I should think probably not," answered Bernardine. "One is not easily +missed, you know." There was a twinkle in Bernardine's eye as she added, +"He is probably occupied with other things!" + +"What is your father?" asked Mrs. Reffold, in her most coaxing tones. + +"I don't know what he is now," answered Bernardine placidly. "But he +was a genius. He is dead." + +Mrs. Reffold gave a slight start, for she began to feel that this +insignificant little person was making fun of her. This would never do, +and before witnesses too. So she gathered together her best resources +and said: + +"Dear me, how very unfortunate: a genius too. Death is indeed cruel. +And here one sees so much of it, that unless one learns to steel one's +heart, one becomes melancholy. Ah, it is indeed sad to see all this +suffering!" (Mrs Reffold herself had quite succeeded in steeling her +heart against her own invalid husband.) She then gave an account of +several bad cases of consumption, not forgetting to mention two +instances of suicide which had lately taken place in Petershof. + +"One gentleman was a Russian," she said. "Fancy coming all the way, +from Russia to this little out-of-the-world place! But people come from +the uttermost ends of the earth, though of course there are many +Londoners here. I suppose you are from London?" + +"I am not living in London now," said Bernardine cautiously. + +"But you know it, without doubt," continued Mrs. Reffold. "There are +several Kensington people here. You may meet some friends: indeed in +our hotel there are two or three families from Lexham Gardens." + +Bernardine smiled a little viciously; looked first at Mrs. Reffold's +two companions with an amused sort of indulgence, and then at the lady +herself. She paused a moment, and then said: + +"Have you asked all the questions you wish to ask? And, if so, may I +ask one of you. Where does one get the best tea?" + +Mrs. Reffold gave an inward gasp, but pointed gracefully to a small +confectionery shop on the other side of the road. Mrs. Reffold did +everything gracefully. + +Bernardine thanked her, crossed the road, and passed into the shop. + +"Now I have taught her a lesson not to interfere with me," said +Bernardine to herself. "How beautiful she is." + +Mrs. Reffold and her two companions went silently on their way. +At last the silence was broken. + +"Well, I'm blessed!" said the taller of the two, lighting a cigar. + +"So am I," said the other, lighting his cigar too. + +"Those are precisely my own feelings," remarked Mrs. Reffold. + +But she had learnt her lesson. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +CONCERNING WAeRLI AND MARIE. + + +WAeRLI, the little hunchback postman, a cheery soul, came whistling up +the Kurhaus stairs, carrying with him that precious parcel of registered +letters, which gave him the position of being the most important person +in Petershof. He was a linguist, too, was Waerli, and could speak broken +English in a most fascinating way, agreeable to every one, but +intelligible only to himself. Well, he came whistling up the stairs +when he heard Marie's blithe voice humming her favourite spinning-song. + +"Ei, Ei!" he said to himself; "Marie is in a good temper to-day. I will +give her a call as I pass." + +He arranged his neckerchief and smoothed his curls; and when he reached +the end of the landing, he paused outside a little glass-door, and, all +unobserved, watched Marie in her pantry cleaning the candlesticks and +lamps. + +Marie heard a knock, and, looking up from her work, saw Waerli. + +"Good day, Waerli," she said, glancing hurriedly at a tiny broken mirror +suspended on the wall. "I suppose you have a letter for me. How +delightful!" + +"Never mind about the letter just now," he said, waving his hand as +though wishing to dismiss the subject. "How nice to hear you singing +so sweetly, Marie! Dear me, in the old days at Gruesch, how often I have +heard that song of the spinning-wheels. You have forgotten the old days, +Marie, though you remember the song." + +"Give me my letter, Waerli, and go about your work," said Marie, +pretending to be impatient. But all the same her eyes looked extremely +friendly. There was something very winning about the hunchback's face. + +"Ah, ah! Marie," he said, shaking his curly head; "I know how it is +with you: you only like people in fine binding. They have not always +fine hearts." + +"What nonsense you talk Waerli!" said Marie "There, just hand me the +oil-can. You can fill this lamp for me. Not too full, you goose! And +this one also, ah, you're letting the oil trickle down! Why, you're +not fit for anything except carrying letters! Here, give me my letter." + +"What pretty flowers," said Waerli. "Now if there is one thing I do like, +it is a flower. Can you spare me one, Marie? Put one in my button-hole, +do!" + +"You are a nuisance this afternoon," said Marie, smiling and pinning a +flower on Waerli's blue coat. Just then a bell rang violently. + +"Those Portuguese ladies will drive me quite mad," said Marie. "They +always ring just when I am enjoying myself?" + +"When you are enjoying yourself!" said Waerli triumphantly. + +"Of course," returned Marie; "I always do enjoy cleaning the oil-lamps; +I always did!" + +"Ah, I'd forgotten the oil-lamps!" said Waerli. + +"And so had I!" laughed Marie. "Na, na, there goes that bell again! +Won't they be angry! Won't they scold at me! Here, Waerli, give me my +letter, and I'll be off." + +"I never told you I had any letter for you," remarked Waerli. "It was +entirely your own idea. Good afternoon, Fraeulein Marie." + +The Portuguese ladies' bell rang again, still more passionately this +time; but Marie did not seem to hear nor care. She wished to be +revenged on that impudent postman. She went to the top of the stairs +and called after Waerli in her most coaxing tones: + +"Do step down one moment; I want to show you something!" + +"I must deliver the registered letters," said Waerli, with official +haughtiness. "I have already wasted too much of my time." + +"Won't you waste a few more minutes on me?" pleaded Marie pathetically. +"It is not often I see you now." + +Waerli came down again, looking very happy. + +"I want to show you such a beautiful photograph I've had taken," said +Marie. "Ach, it is beautiful!" + +"You must give one to me," said Waerli eagerly. + +"Oh, I can't do that," replied Marie, as she opened the drawer and took +out a small packet. "It was a present to me from the Polish gentleman +himself. He saw me the other day here in the pantry. I was so tired, +and I had fallen asleep with my broom, just as you see me here. So he +made a photograph of me. He admires me very much. Isn't it nice? and +isn't the Polish gentleman clever? and isn't it nice to have so much +attention paid to one? Oh, there's that horrid bell again! Good +afternoon, Herr Waerli. That is all I have to say to you, thank you." + +Waerli's feelings towards the Polish gentleman were not of the +friendliest that day. + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. + + +ROBERT ALLITSEN told Bernardine that she was not likely to be on +friendly terms with the English people in the Kurhaus. + +"They will not care about you, and you will not care about the +foreigners. So you will thus be thrown on your own resources, +just as I was when I came." + +"I cannot say that I have any resources," Bernardine answered. "I don't +feel well enough to try to do any writing, or else it would be +delightful to have the uninterrupted leisure." + +So she had probably told him a little about her life and occupation; +although it was not likely that she would have given him any serious +confidences. Still, people are often surprisingly frank about +themselves, even those who pride themselves upon being the most +reticent mortals in the world. + +"But now, having the leisure," she continued, "I have not the brains!" + +"I never knew any writer who had," said the Disagreeable Man grimly. + +"Perhaps your experience has been limited," she suggested. + +"Why don't you read?" he said. "There is a good library here. It +contains all the books we don't want to read." + +"I am tired of reading," Bernardine said. "I seem to have been reading +all my life. My uncle, with whom I live, keeps, a second-hand book-shop, +and ever since I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. They +have not done me much good, nor any one else either." + +"No, probably not," he said. "But now that you have left off reading, +you will have a chance of learning something, if you live long enough. +It is wonderful how much one does learn when one does not read. It is +almost awful. If you don't care about reading now, why do you not +occupy yourself with cheese-mites?" + +"I do not feel drawn towards cheese-mites." + +"Perhaps not, at first; but all the same they form a subject which is +very engaging. Or any branch of bacteriology." + +"Well, if you were to lend me your microscope, perhaps I might begin." + +"I could not do that," he answered quickly. "I never lend my things." + +"No, I did not suppose you would," she said. "I knew I was safe in +making the suggestion." + +"You are rather quick of perception in spite of all your book reading," +he said. "Yes, you are quite right. I am selfish. I dislike lending my +things, and I dislike spending my money except on myself. If you have +the misfortune to linger on as I do you will know that it is perfectly +legitimate to be selfish in small things, _if one has made the one +great sacrifice_." + +"And what may that be?" + +She asked so eagerly that he looked at her, and then saw how worn and +tired her face was; and the words which he was intending to speak, +died on his lips. + +"Look at those asses of people on toboggans," he said brusquely. "Could +you manage to enjoy yourself in that way? That might do you good." + +"Yes," she said; "but it would not be any pleasure to me." + +She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road. And the +Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a +face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable. + +He had lived nearly seven years at Petershof, and, like many others was +obliged to continue staying there if he wished to continue staying in +this planet. It was not probable that he had any wish to prolong his +frail existence, but he did his duty to his mother by conserving his +life; and this feeble flame of duty and affection was the only lingering +bit of warmth in a heart frozen almost by ill health and disappointed +ambitions. The moralists tell us that suffering ennobles, and that a +right acceptation of hindrances goes towards forming a beautiful +character. But this result must largely depend on the original +character: certainly, in the case of Robert Allitsen, suffering had not +ennobled his mind, nor disappointment sweetened his disposition. His +title of "Disagreeable Man" had been fairly earned, and he hugged it to +himself with a triumphant secret satisfaction. + +There were some people in Petershof who were inclined to believe certain +absurd rumours about his alleged kindness. It was said that on more than +one occasion he had nursed the suffering and the dying in sad Petershof, +and, with all the sorrowful tenderness worthy of a loving mother, had +helped them to take their leave of life. But these were only rumours, +and there was nothing in Robert Allitsen's ordinary bearing to justify +such talk. So the foolish people who, for the sake of making themselves +peculiar, revived these unlikely fictions, were speedily ridiculed and +reduced to silence. And the Disagreeable Man remained the Disagreeable +Man, with a clean record for unamiability. + +He lived a life apart from others. Most of his time was occupied in +photography, or in the use and study of the microscope, or in chemistry. +His photographs were considered to be most beautiful. Not that he showed +them specially to any one; but he generally sent a specimen of his work +to the Monthly Photograph Portfolio, and hence it was that people +learned to know of his skill. He might be seen any fine day trudging +along in company with his photographic apparatus, and a desolate dog, +who looked almost as cheerless as his chosen comrade. Neither the one +took any notice of the other; Allitsen was no more genial to the dog +than he was to the Kurhaus guests; the dog was no more demonstrative +to Robert Allitsen than he was to any one in Petershof. + +Still, they were "something" to each other, that unexplainable +"something" which has to explain almost every kind of attachment. + +He had no friends in Petershof, and apparently had no friends anywhere. +No one wrote to him, except his old mother; the papers which were sent +to him came from a stationer's. + +He read all during meal-time. But now and again he spoke a few words +with Bernardine Holme, whose place was next to him. It never occurred +to him to say good morning, nor to give a greeting of any kind, nor to +show a courtesy. One day during lunch, however, he did take the trouble +to stoop and pick up Bernardine Holme's shawl, which had fallen for the +third time to the ground. + +"I never saw a female wear a shawl more carelessly than you," he said. +"You don't seem to know anything about it." + +His manner was always gruff. Every one complained of him. Every one +always had complained of him. He had never been heard to laugh. Once +or twice he had been seen to smile on occasions when people talked +confidently of recovering their health. It was a beautiful smile worthy +of a better cause. It was a smile which made one pause to wonder what +could have been the original disposition of the Disagreeable Man before +ill-health had cut him off from the affairs of active life. Was he happy +or unhappy? It was not known. He gave no sign of either the one state or +the other. He always looked very ill, but he did not seem to get worse. +He had never been known to make the faintest allusion to his own health. +He never "smoked" his thermometer in public; and this was the more +remarkable in an hotel where people would even leave off a conversation +and say: "Excuse me, Sir or Madam, I must now take my temperature. We +will resume the topic in a few minutes." + +He never lent any papers or books, and he never borrowed any. + +He had a room at the top of the hotel, and he lived his life, amongst +his chemistry bottles, his scientific books, his microscope, and his +camera. He never sat in any of the hotel drawing-rooms. There was +nothing striking nor eccentric about his appearance. He was neither +ugly nor good-looking, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark. +He was thin and frail, and rather bent. But that might be the +description of any one in Petershof. There was nothing pathetic about +him, no suggestion even of poetry, which gives a reverence to suffering, +whether mental or physical. As there was no expression on his face, +so also there was no expression in his eyes: no distant longing, no +far-off fixedness; nothing, indeed, to awaken sad sympathy. + +The only positive thing about him was his rudeness. Was it natural or +cultivated? No one in Petershof could say. He had always been as he was; +and there was no reason to suppose that he would ever be different. + +He was, in fact, like the glacier of which he had such a fine view from +his room; like the glacier, an unchanging feature of the neighbourhood. + +No one loved it better than the Disagreeable Man did; he watched the +sunlight on it, now pale golden, now fiery red. He loved the sky, the +dull grey, or the bright blue. He loved the snow forests, and the +snow-girt streams, and the ice cathedrals, and the great firs patient +beneath their snow-burden. He loved the frozen waterfalls, and the +costly diamonds in the snow. He knew, too, where the flowers nestled +in their white nursery. He was, indeed, an authority on Alpine botany. +The same tender hands which plucked the flowers in the spring-time, +dissected them and laid them bare beneath the microscope. But he did +not love them the less for that. + +Were these pursuits a comfort to him? Did they help him to forget that +there was a time when he, too, was burning with ambition to distinguish +himself, and be one of the marked men of the age? + +Who could say? + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE. + + +COUNTLESS ages ago a Traveller, much worn with journeying, climbed up +the last bit of rough road which led to the summit of a high mountain. +There was a temple on that mountain. And the Traveller had vowed that +he would reach it before death prevented him. He knew the journey was +long, and the road rough. He knew that the mountain was the most +difficult of ascent of that mountain chain, called "The Ideals." But +he had a strongly-hoping heart and a sure foot. He lost all sense of +time, but he never lost the feeling of hope. + +"Even if I faint by the way-side," he said to himself, "and am not +able to reach the summit, still it is something to be on the road +which leads to the High Ideals." + +That was how he comforted himself when he was weary. He never lost +more hope than that; and surely that was little enough. + +And now he had reached the temple. + +He rang the bell, and an old white-haired man opened the gate. He +smiled sadly when he saw the Traveller. + +"_And yet another one_," he murmured. "What does it all mean?" + +The Traveller did not hear what he murmured. + +"Old white-haired man," he said, "tell me; and so I have come at last +to the wonderful Temple of Knowledge. I have been journeying hither all +my life. Ah, but it is hard work climbing up to the Ideals." + +The old man touched the Traveller on the arm. "Listen," he said gently. +"This is not the Temple of Knowledge. And the Ideals are not a chain of +mountains; they are a stretch of plains, and the Temple of Knowledge is +in their centre. You have come the wrong road. Alas, poor Traveller!" + +The light in the Traveller's eyes had faded. The hope in his heart died. +And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff. + +"Can one rest here?" he asked wearily. + +"No." + +"Is there a way down the other side of these mountains?" + +"No." + +"What are these mountains called?" + +"They have no name." + +"And the temple--how do you call the temple?" + +"It has no name!" + +"Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts," said the Traveller. + +And he turned and went. But the old white-haired man followed him. + +"Brother," he said, "you are not the first to come here, but you may be +the last. Go back to the plains, and tell the dwellers in the plains +that the Temple of True Knowledge is in their very midst; any one may +enter it who chooses, the gate is not even closed. The Temple has +always been in the plains, in the very heart of life, and work, and +daily effort. The philosopher may enter, the stone-breaker may enter. +You must have passed it every day of your life; a plain, venerable +building, unlike your glorious cathedrals." + +"I have seen the children playing near it," said the Traveller. "When +I was a child I used to play there. Ah, if I had only known! Well, +the past is the past." + +He would have rested against a huge stone, but that the old white-haired +man prevented him. + +"Do not rest," he said. "If you once rest there, you will not rise again. +When you once rest, you will know how weary you are." + +"I have no wish to go farther," said the Traveller. "My journey is done; +it may have been in the wrong direction, but still it is done." + +"Nay, do not linger here," urged the old man. "Retrace your steps. +Though you are broken-hearted yourself, you may save others from +breaking their hearts. Those whom you meet on this road, you can turn +back. Those who are but starting in this direction you can bid pause +and consider how mad it is to suppose that the Temple of True Knowledge +should have been built on an isolated and dangerous mountain. Tell them +that although God seems hard, He is not as hard as all that. Tell them +that the Ideals are not a mountain range, but their own plains, where +their great cities are built, and where the corn grows, and where men +and women are toiling, sometimes in sorrow and sometimes in joy." + +"I will go," said the Traveller. + +And he started. + +But he had grown old and weary. And the journey was long; and the +retracing of one's steps is more toilsome than the tracing of them. +The ascent, with all the vigour and hope of life to help him, had been +difficult enough; the descent, with no vigour and no hope to help him, +was almost impossible. + +So that it was not probable that the Traveller lived to reach the plains. +But whether he reached them or not, still he had started. + +And not many Travellers do that. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +BERNARDINE. + + +THE crisp mountain air and the warm sunshine began slowly to have their +effect on Bernardine, in spite of the Disagreeable Man's verdict. She +still looked singularly lifeless, and appeared to drag herself about +with painful effort; but the place suited her, and she enjoyed sitting +in the sun listening to the music which was played by a scratchy string +band. Some of the Kurhaus guests, seeing that she was alone and ailing, +made some attempts to be kindly to her. She always seemed astonished +that people should concern themselves about her; whatever her faults +were, it never struck her that she might be of any importance to others, +however important she might be to herself. She was grateful for any +little kindness which was shewn her; but at first she kept very much to +herself, talking chiefly with the Disagreeable Man, who, by the way, +had surprised every one--but no one more than himself--by his unwonted +behaviour in bestowing even a fraction of his companionship on a +Petershof human being. + +There was a great deal of curiosity about her, but no one ventured to +question her since Mrs. Reffold's defeat. Mrs. Reffold herself rather +avoided her, having always a vague suspicion that Bernardine tried to +make fun of her. But whether out of perversity or not, Bernardine never +would be avoided by her, never let her pass by without a few words of +conversation, and always went to her for information, much to the +amusement of Mrs. Reffold's faithful attendants. There was always a +twinkle in Bernardine's eye when she spoke with Mrs. Reffold. She never +fastened herself on to any one; no one could say she intruded. As time +went, on there was a vague sort of feeling that she did not intrude +enough. She was ready to speak if any one cared to speak with her, but +she never began a conversation except with Mrs. Reffold. When people +did talk to her, they found her genial. Then the sad face would smile +kindly, and the sad eyes speak kind sympathy. Or some bit of fun would +flash forth, and a peal of young laughter ring out. It seemed strange +that such fun could come from her. + +Those who noticed her, said she appeared always to be thinking. + +She was thinking and learning. + +Some few remarks roughly made by the Disagreeable Man had impressed her +deeply. + +"You have come to a new world," he said, "the world of suffering. You +are in a fury because your career has been checked, and because you have +been put on the shelf; you, of all people. Now you will learn how many +quite as able as yourself, and abler, have been put on the shelf too, +and have to stay there. You are only a pupil in suffering. What about +the professors? If your wonderful wisdom has left you with any sense at +all, look about you and learn." + +So she was looking, and thinking, and learning. And as the days went by, +perhaps a softer light came into her eyes. + +All her life long, her standard of judging people had been an +intellectual standard, or an artistic standard: what people had done +with outward and visible signs; how far they had contributed to thought; +how far they had influenced any great movement, or originated it; how +much of a benefit they had been to their century or their country; how +much social or political activity, how much educational energy they had +devoted to the pressing need of the times. + +She was undoubtedly a clever, cultured young woman; the great work of +her life had been self-culture. To know and understand, she had spared +neither herself nor any one else. To know, and to use her acquired +knowledge intellectually as teacher and, perhaps, too, as writer, had +been the great aim of her life. Everything that furthered this aim won +her instant attention. It never struck her that she was selfish. One +does not think of that until the great check comes. One goes on, and +would go on. But a barrier rises up. Then, finding one can advance no +further, one turns round; and what does one see? + +Bernardine saw that she had come a long journey. She saw what the +Traveller saw. That was all she saw at first. Then she remembered that +she had done the journey entirely for her own sake. Perhaps it might +not have looked so dreary if it had been undertaken for some one else. + +She had claimed nothing of any one; she had given nothing to any one. +She had simply taken her life in her own hands and made what she could +of it. What had she made of it? + +Many women asked for riches, for position, for influence and authority +and admiration. She had only asked to be able to work. It seemed little +enough to ask. That she asked so little placed her, so she thought, +apart from the common herd of eager askers. To be cut off from active +life and earnest work was a possibility which never occurred to her. + +It never crossed her mind that in asking for the one thing for which +she longed, she was really asking for the greatest thing. Now, in the +hour of her enfeeblement, and in the hour of the bitterness of her +heart, she still prided herself upon wanting so little. + +"It seems so little to ask," she cried to herself time after time. +"I only want to be able to do a few strokes of work. I would be content +now to do so little, if only I might do some. The laziest day-labourer +on the road would laugh at the small amount of work which would content +me now." + +She told the Disagreeable Man that one day. + +"So you think you are moderate in your demands," he said to her. "You +are a most amusing young woman. You are so perfectly unconscious how +exacting you really are. For, after all, what is it you want? You want +to have that wonderful brain of yours restored, so that you may begin +to teach, and, perhaps, write a book. Well, to repeat my former words: +you are still at phase one, and you are longing to be strong enough to +fulfil your ambitions and write a book. When you arrive at phase four, +you will be quite content to dust one of your uncle's books instead: +far more useful work and far more worthy of encouragement. If every one +who wrote books now would be satisfied to dust books already written, +what a regenerated world it would become!" + +She laughed good-temperedly. His remarks did not vex her; or, at least, +she showed no vexation. He seemed to have constituted himself as her +critic, and she made no objections. She had given him little bits of +stray confidence about herself, and she received everything he had to +say with that kind of forbearance which chivalry bids us show to the +weak and ailing. She made allowances for him; but she did more than that +for him: she did not let him see that she made allowances. Moreover, +she recognized amidst all his roughness a certain kind of sympathy which +she could not resent, because it was not aggressive. For to some natures +the expression of sympathy is an irritation; to be sympathized with +means to be pitied, and to be pitied means to be looked down upon. She +was sorry for him, but she would not have told him so for worlds; he +would have shrunk from pity as much as she did. And yet the sympathy +which she thought she did not want for herself, she was silently giving +to those around her, like herself, thwarted, each in a different way +perhaps, still thwarted all the same. + +She found more than once that she was learning to measure people by a +standard different from her former one; not by what they had _done_ or +_been_, but by what they had _suffered_. But such a change as this does +not come suddenly, though, in a place like Petershof, it comes quickly, +almost unconsciously. + +She became immensely interested in some of the guests; and there were +curious types in the Kurhaus. The foreigners attracted her chiefly; a +little Parisian danseuse, none too quiet in her manner, won Bernardine's +fancy. + +"I so want to get better, _cherie_," she said to Bernardine. "Life is so +bright. Death: ah, how the very thought makes one shiver! That horrid +doctor says I must not skate; it is not wise. When was I wise? Wise +people don't enjoy themselves. And I have enjoyed myself, and will +still." + +"How can you go about with that little danseuse?" the Disagreeable Man +said to Bernardine one day. "Do you know who she is?" + +"Yes," said Bernardine; "she is the lady who thinks you must be a very +ill-bred person because you stalk into meals, with your hands in your +pockets. She wondered how I could bring myself to speak to you." + +"I dare say many people wonder at that," said Robert Allitsen rather +peevishly. + +"Oh no," replied Bernardine; "they wonder that you talk to me. They +think I must either be very clever or else very disagreeable." + +"I should not call you clever," said Robert Allitsen grimly. + +"No," answered Bernardine pensively. "But I always did think myself +clever until I came here. Now I am beginning to know better. But it +is rather a shock, isn't it?" + +"I have never experienced the shock," he said. + +"Then you still think you are clever?" she asked. + +"There is only one man my intellectual equal in Petershof, and he is +not here any more," he said gravely. "Now I come to remember, he died. +That is the worst of making friendships here; people die." + +"Still, it is something to be left king of the intellectual world," +said Bernardine. "I never thought of you in that light." + +There was a sly smile about her lips as she spoke, and there was the +ghost of a smile on the Disagreeable Man's face. + +"Why do you talk with that horrid Swede?" he said suddenly. "He is a +wretched low foreigner. Have you heard some of his views?" + +"Some of them," answered Bernardine cheerfully. "One of his views is +really amusing: that it is very rude of you to read the newspaper during +meal-time; and he asks if it is an English custom. I tell him it depends +entirely on the Englishman, and the Englishman's neighbour!" + +So she too had her raps at him, but always in the kindest way. + +He had a curious effect on her. His very bitterness seemed to check in +its growth her own bitterness. The cup of poison of which he himself had +drunk deep, he passed on to her. She drank of it, and it did not poison +her. She was morbid, and she needed cheerful companionship. His dismal +companionship and his hard way of looking at life ought by rights to +have oppressed her. Instead of which she became less sorrowful. + +Was the Disagreeable Man, perhaps, a reader of character? Did he know +how to help her in his own grim gruff way? He himself had suffered so +much; perhaps he did know. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE STORY MOVES ON AT LAST. + + +BERNARDINE was playing chess one day with the Swedish Professor. On the +Kurhaus terrace the guests were sunning themselves, warmly wrapped up to +protect themselves from the cold, and well-provided with parasols to +protect themselves from the glare. Some were reading, some were playing +cards or Russian dominoes, and others were doing nothing. There was a +good deal of fun, and a great deal of screaming amongst the Portuguese +colony. The little danseuse and three gentlemen acquaintances were +drinking coffee, and not behaving too quietly. Pretty Fraulein Muller was +leaning over her balcony carrying on a conversation with a picturesque +Spanish youth below. Most of the English party had gone sledging and +tobogganing. Mrs. Reffold had asked Bernardine to join them, but she had +refused. Mrs. Reffold's friends were anything but attractive to +Bernardine, although she liked Mrs. Reffold herself immensely. There was +no special reason why she should like her; she certainly had no cause to +admire her every-day behaviour, nor her neglect of her invalid husband, +who was passing away, uncared for in the present, and not likely to be +mourned for in the future. Mrs. Reffold was gay, careless, and beautiful. +She understood nothing about nursing, and cared less. So a trained nurse +looked after Mr. Reffold, and Mrs. Reffold went sledging. + +"Dear Wilfrid is so unselfish," she said. "He will not have me stay at +home. But I feel very selfish." That was her stock remark. Most people +answered her by saying: "Oh no, Mrs. Reffold, don't say that." But when +she made the remark to Bernardine, and expected the usual reply, +Bernardine said instead: "Mr. Reffold seems lonely." + +"Oh, he has a trained nurse, and she can read to him," said Mrs. Reffold +hurriedly. She seemed ruffled. + +"I had a trained nurse once," replied Bernardine; "and she could read; +but she would not. She said it hurt her throat." + +"Dear me, how very unfortunate for you," said Mrs. Reffold. "Ah, there +is Captain Graham calling. I must not keep the sledges waiting." + +That was a few days ago, but to-day, when Bernardine was playing chess +with the Swedish Professor, Mrs. Reffold came to her. There was a +curious mixture of shyness and abandon in Mrs. Reffold's manner. + +"Miss Holme," she said, "I have thought of such a splendid idea. Will +you go and see Mr. Reffold this afternoon? That would be a nice little +change for him." + +Bernardine smiled. + +"If you wish it," she answered. + +Mrs. Reffold nodded and hastened away, and Bernardine continued her +game, and, having finished it, rose to go. + +The Reffolds were rich, and lived in a suite of apartments in the more +luxurious part of the Kurhaus. + +Bernardine knocked at the door, and the nurse came to open it. + +"Mrs. Reffold asks me to visit Mr. Reffold," Bernardine said; and the +nurse showed her into the pleasant sitting-room. + +Mr. Reffold was lying on the sofa. He looked up as Bernardine came in, +and a smile of pleasure spread over his wan face. + +"I don't know whether I intrude," said Bernardine; "but Mrs. Reffold +said I might come to see you." + +Mr. Reffold signed to the nurse to withdraw. + +She had never before spoken to him. She had often seen him lying by +himself in the sunshine. + +"Are you paid for coming to me?" asked eagerly. + +The words seemed rude enough, but there was no rudeness in the manner. + +"No, I am not paid," she said gently; and then she took a chair and sat +near him. + +"Ah, that's well!" he said, with a sigh of relief "I'm so tired of paid +service. To know that things are done for me because a certain amount of +francs are given so that those things may be done--well, one gets weary +of it; that's all!" + +There was bitterness in every word he spoke. "I lie here," he said, +"and the loneliness of it--the loneliness of it!" + +"Shall I read to you?" she asked kindly. She did not know what to say +to him. + +"I want to talk first," he replied. "I want to talk first to some one +who is not paid for talking to me. I have often watched you, and +wondered who you were. Why do you look so sad? No one is waiting for +you to die?" + +"Don't talk like that!" she said; and she bent over him and arranged +the cushions for him more comfortably. He looked just like a great lank +tired child. + +"Are you one of my wife's friends?" he asked. + +"I don't suppose I am," she answered gently; "but I like her, all the +same. Indeed, I like her very much. And I think her beautiful!" + +"Ah, she is beautiful!" he said eagerly. "Doesn't she look splendid in +her furs? By Jove, you are right! She is a beautiful woman. I am proud +of her!" + +Then the smile faded from his face. + +"Beautiful," he said half to himself, "but hard." + +"Come now," said Bernardine; "you are surrounded with books and +newspapers. What shall I read to you?" + +"No one reads what I want," he answered peevishly. "My tastes are not +their tastes. I don't suppose you would care to read what I want to +hear!" + +"Well," she said cheerily, "try me. Make your choice." + +"Very well, the _Sporting and Dramatic_," he said. "Read every word of +that. And about that theatrical divorce case. And every word of that +too. Don't you skip, and cheat me." + +She laughed and settled herself down to amuse him. And he listened +contentedly. + +"That is something like literature," he said once or twice. "I can +understand papers of that sort going like wild-fire." + +When he was tired of being read to, she talked to him in a manner that +would have astonished the Disagreeable Man: not of books, nor learning, +but of people she had met and of Places she had seen; and there was fun +in everything she said. She knew London well, and she could tell him +about the Jewish and the Chinese quarters, and about her adventures in +company with a man who took her here, there, and everywhere. + +She made him some tea, and she cheered the poor fellow as he had not +been cheered for months. + +"You're just a little brick," he said, when she was leaving. Then once +more he added eagerly: + +"And you're not to be paid, are you?" + +"Not a single _sou_!" she laughed. "What a strange idea of yours!" + +"You are not offended?" he said anxiously. "But you can't think what a +difference it makes to me. You are not offended?" + +"Not in the least!" she answered. "I know quite well how you mean it. +You want a little kindness with nothing at the back of it. Now, +good-bye!" + +He called her when she was outside the door. + +"I say, will you come again soon?" + +"Yes, I will come to-morrow." + +"Do you know you've been a little brick. I hope I haven't tired you. +You are only a bit of a thing yourself. But, by Jove, you know how to +put a fellow in a good temper!" + +When Mrs. Reffold went down to _table-d'hote_ that night, she met +Bernardine on the stairs, and stopped to speak with her. + +"We've had a splendid afternoon," she said; "and we've arranged to go +again to-morrow at the same time. Such a pity you don't come! Oh, by +the way, thank you for going to see my husband. I hope he did not tire +you. He is a little querulous, I think. He so enjoyed your visit. Poor +fellow! it is sad to see him so ill, isn't it?" + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +BERNARDINE PREACHES. + + +AFTER this, scarcely a day passed but Bernardine went to see Mr. Reffold. +The most inexperienced eye could have known that he was becoming rapidly +worse. Marie, the chambermaid, knew it, and spoke of it frequently to +Bernardine. + +"The poor lonely fellow!" she said, time after time. + +Every one, except Mrs. Reffold, seemed to recognize that Mr. Reffold's +days were numbered. Either she did not or would not understand. She made +no alteration in the disposal of her time: sledging parties and skating +picnics were the order of the day; she was thoroughly pleased with +herself, and received the attentions of her admirers as a matter of +course. The Petershof climate had got into her head; and it is a +well-known fact that this glorious air has the effect on some people of +banishing from their minds all inconvenient notions of duty and devotion, +and all memory of the special object of their sojourn in Petershof. The +coolness and calmness with which such people ignore their +responsibilities, or allow strangers to assume them, would be an +occasion for humour, if it were not an opportunity for indignation: +though indeed it would take a very exceptionally sober-minded spectator +not to get some fun out of the blissful self-satisfaction and +unconsciousness which characterize the most negligent of 'caretakers.' + +Mrs. Reffold was not the only sinner in this respect. It would have been +interesting to get together a tea-party of invalids alone, and set the +ball rolling about the respective behaviours of their respective friends. +Not a pleasing chronicle: no very choice pages to add to the book of real +life; still, valuable items in their way, representative of the actual as +opposed to the ideal. In most instances there would have been ample +testimony to that cruel monster, known as Neglect. + +Bernardine spoke once to the Disagreeable Man on this subject. She spoke +with indignation, and he answered with indifference, shrugging his +shoulders. + +"These things occur," he said "It is not that they are worse here than +everywhere else; it is simply that they are together in an accumulated +mass, and, as such, strike us with tremendous force. I myself am +accustomed to these exhibitions of selfishness and neglect. I should be +astonished if they did not take place. Don't mix yourself up with +anything. If people are neglected, they _are_ neglected, and there is +the end of it. To imagine that you or I are going to do any good by +filling up the breach, is simply an insanity leading to unnecessarily +disagreeable consequences. I know you go to see Mr. Reffold. Take my +advice, and keep away." + +"You speak like a Calvinist," she answered, rather ruffled, "with the +quintessence of self-protectiveness; and I don't believe you mean a +word you say." + +"My dear young woman," he said, "we are not living in a poetry book +bound with gilt edges. We are living in a paper-backed volume of prose. +Be sensible. Don't ruffle yourself on account of other people. Don't +even trouble to criticize them; it is only a nuisance to yourself. All +this simply points back to my first suggestion: fill up your time with +some hobby, cheese-mites or the influenza bacillus, and then you will +be quite content to let people be neglected, lonely, and to die. You +will look upon it as an ordinary and natural process." + +She waved her hand as though to stop him. + +"There are days," she said, "when I can't bear to talk with you. And +this is one of them." + +"I am sorry," he answered, quite gently for him. And he moved away from +her, and started for his usual lonely walk. + +Bernardine turned home, intending to go to see Mr. Reffold. He had become +quite attached to her, and looked forward eagerly to her visits. He said +her voice was gentle and her manner quiet; there was no bustling vitality +about her to irritate his worn nerves. He was probably an empty-headed, +stupid fellow; but it was none the less sad to see him passing away. + +He called her 'Little Brick.' He said that no other epithet suited her +so exactly. He was quite satisfied now that she was not paid for coming +to see him. As for the reading, no one could read the _Sporting and +Dramatic News_ and the _Era_ so well as Little Brick. Sometimes he +spoke with her about his wife, but only in general terms of bitterness, +and not always complainingly. She listened and said nothing. + +"I'm a chap that wants very little," he said once. "Those who want +little, get nothing." + +That was all he said, but Bernardine knew to whom he referred. + +To-day, as Bernardine was on her way back to the Kurhaus, she was +thinking constantly of Mrs. Reffold, and wondering whether she ought to +be made to realize that her husband was becoming rapidly worse. Whilst +engrossed with this thought, a long train of sledges and toboggans +passed her. The sound of the bells and the noisy merriment made her look +up, and she saw beautiful Mrs. Reffold amongst the pleasure-seekers. + +"If only I dared tell her now," said Bernardine to herself, "loudly and +before them all!" + +Then a more sensible mood came over her. "After all, it is not my +affair," she said. + +And the sledges passed away out of hearing. + +When Bernardine sat with Mr. Reffold that afternoon she did not mention +that she had seen his wife. He coughed a great deal, and seemed to be +worse than usual, and complained of fever. But he liked to have her, +and would not hear of her going. + +"Stay," he said. "It is not much of a pleasure to you, but it is a great +pleasure to me." + +There was an anxious look on his face, such a look as people wear when +they wish to ask some question of great moment, but dare not begin. + +At last he seemed to summon up courage. + +"Little Brick," he said, in a weak low voice, "I have something on my +mind. You won't laugh, I know. You're not the sort. I know you're clever +and thoughtful, and all that; you could tell me more than all the +parsons put together. I know you're clever; my wife says so. She says +only a very clever woman would wear such boots and hats!" + +Bernardine smiled. + +"Well," she said kindly, "tell me." + +"You must have thought a good deal, I suppose," he continued, "about +life and death, and that sort of thing. I've never thought at all. Does +it matter, Little Brick? It's too late now. I can't begin to think. But +speak to me; tell me what you think. Do you believe we get another +chance, and are glad to behave less like curs and brutes? Or is it all +ended in that lonely little churchyard here? I've never troubled about +these things before, but now I know I am so near that gloomy little +churchyard--well, it makes me wonder. As for the Bible, I never cared +to read it, I was never much of a reader, though I've got through two +or three firework novels and sporting stories. Does it matter, Little +Brick?" + +"How do I know?" she said gently. "How does any one know? People say +they know; but it is all a great mystery--nothing but a mystery. +Everything that we say, can be but a guess. People have gone mad over +their guessing, or they have broken their hearts. But still the mystery +remains, and we cannot solve it." + +"If you don't know anything, Little Brick," he said, "at least tell me +what you think: and don't be too learned; remember I'm only a brainless +fellow." + +He seemed to be waiting eagerly for her answer. + +"If I were you," she said, "I should not worry. Just make up your mind +to do better when you get another chance. One can't do more than that. +That is what I shall think of: that God will give each one of us another +chance, and that each one of us will take it and do better--I and you +and every one. So there is no need to fret over failure, when one hopes +one may be allowed to redeem that failure later on. Besides which, life +is very hard. Why, we ourselves recognize that. If there be a God, some +Intelligence greater than human intelligence, he will understand better +than ourselves that life is very hard and difficult, and he will be +astonished not _because we are not better, but because we are not +worse_. At least, that would be my notion of a God. I should not worry, +if I were you. Just make up your mind to do better if you get the +chance, and be content with that." + +"If that is what you think, Little Brick," he answered, "it is quite +good enough for me. And it does not matter about prayers and the Bible, +and all that sort of thing?" + +"I don't think it matters," she said. "I never have thought such things +mattered. What does matter, is to judge gently, and not to come down +like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings. Who are we, any of us, +that we should be hard on others?" + +"And not come down like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings," he +repeated slowly. "I wonder if I have ever judged gently." + +"I believe you have," she answered. + +He shook his head. + +"No," he said; "I have been a paltry fellow. I have been lying here, +and elsewhere too, eating my heart away with bitterness, until you came. +Since then I have sometimes forgotten to feel bitter. A little kindness +does away with a great deal of bitterness." + +He turned wearily on his side. + +"I think I could sleep, Little Brick," he said, almost in a whisper. +"I want to dream about your sermon. And I'm not to worry, am I?" + +"No," she answered, as she stepped noiselessly across the room; "you +are not to worry." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT. + + +ONE specially fine morning a knock came at Bernardine's door. She +opened it, and found Robert Allitsen standing there, trying to recover +his breath. + +"I am going to Loschwitz, a village about twelve miles off," he said. +"And I have ordered a sledge. Do you care to come too?" + +"If I may pay my share," she said. + +"Of course," he answered; "I did not suppose you would like to be paid +for any better than I should like to pay for you." + +Bernardine laughed. + +"When do we start?" she asked. + +"Now," he answered. "Bring a rug, and also that shawl of yours which is +always falling down, and come at once without any fuss. We shall be out +for the whole day. What about Mrs. Grundy? We could manage to take her +if you wished, but she would not be comfortable sitting amongst the +photographic apparatus, and I certainly should not give up my seat to +her." + +"Then leave her at home," said Bernardine cheerily. + +And so they settled it. + +In less than a quarter of an hour they had started; and Bernardine +leaned luxuriously back to enjoy to the full her first sledge-drive. + +It was all new to her: the swift passing through the crisp air without +any sensation of motion; the sleepy tinkling of the bells on the horses' +heads; the noiseless cutting through of the snow-path. + +All these weeks she had known nothing of the country, and now she found +herself in the snow fairy-land of which the Disagreeable Man had often +spoken to her. Around, vast plains of untouched snow, whiter than any +dream of whiteness, jewelled by the sunshine with priceless diamonds, +numberless as the sands of the sea. The great pines bearing their burden +of snow patiently; others, less patient, having shaken themselves free +from what the heavens had sent them to bear. And now the streams, +flowing on reluctantly over ice-coated rocks, and the ice cathedrals +formed by the icicles between the rocks. + +And always the same silence, save for the tinkling of the horses' bells. + +On the heights the quaint chalets, some merely huts for storing wood; on +others, farms, or the homes of peasants; some dark brown, almost black, +betraying their age; others of a paler hue, showing that the sun had not +yet mellowed them into a deep rich colour. And on all alike, the fringe +of icicles. A wonderful white world. + +It was a long time before Bernardine even wished to speak. This +beautiful whiteness may become monotonous after a time, but there is +something very awe-inspiring about it, something which catches the soul +and holds it. + +The Disagreeable Man sat quietly by her side. Once or twice he bent +forward to protect the camera when the sledge gave a lurch. + +After some time they met a procession of sledges laden with timber; +and August, the driver, and Robert Allitsen exchanged some fun and +merriment with the drivers in their quaint blue smocks. The noise of +the conversation, and the excitement of getting past the sledges, +brought Bernardine back to speech again. + +"I have never before enjoyed anything so much," she said. + +"So you have found your tongue," he said. "Do you mind talking a little +now? I feel rather lonely." + +This was said in such a pathetic, aggrieved tone, that Bernardine +laughed and looked at her companion. His face wore an unusually bright +expression. He was evidently out to enjoy himself. + +"_You_ talk," she said; "and tell me all about the country." + +And he told her what he knew, and, amongst other things, about the +avalanches. He was able to point out where some had fallen the previous +year. He stopped in the middle of his conversation to tell her to put up +her umbrella. + +"I can't trouble to hold it for you," he said; "but I don't mind opening +it. The sun is blazing to-day, and you will get your eyes bad if you are +not careful. That would be a pity, for you seem to me rather better +lately." + +"What a confession for you to make of any one!" said she. + +"Oh, I don't mean to say that you will ever get well," he added grimly. +"You seem to have pulled yourself in too many directions for that. You +have tried to be too alive; and, now you are obliged to join the genus +cabbage." + +"I am certainly less ill than I was when I first came," she said; "and I +feel in a better frame of mind altogether. I am learning a good deal in +sad Petershof." + +"That is more than I have done," he answered. + +"Well, perhaps you teach instead," she said. "You have taught me several +things. Now, go on telling me about the country people. You like them?" + +"I love them," he said simply. "I know them well, and they know me. You +see I have been in this district so long now, and have walked about so +much, that the very wood cutters know me; and the drivers give me lifts +on their piles of timber." + +"You are not surly with the poor people, then?" said Bernardine; "though +I must say I cannot imagine you being genial. Were you ever genial, I +wonder?" + +"I don't think that has ever been laid to my charge," he answered. + +The time passed away pleasantly. The Disagreeable Man was scarcely +himself to-day; or was it that he was more like himself? He seemed in a +boyish mood; he made fun out of nothing, and laughed with such young +fresh laughter, that even August, the grave blue-spectacled driver, was +moved to mirth. As for Bernardine, she had to look at Robert Allitsen +several times to be sure that he was the same Robert Allitsen she had +known two hours ago in Petershof. But she made no remark, and showed no +surprise, but met his merriness half way. No one could be a cheerier +companion than herself when she chose. + +At last they arrived at Loschwitz. The sledge wound its way through the +sloshy streets of the queer little village, and finally drew up in front +of the Gasthaus. It was a black sunburnt chalet, with green shutters, +and steps leading up to a green balcony. A fringe of sausages hung from +the roof; red bedding was scorching in the sunshine; three cats were +sunning themselves on the steps; a young woman sat in the green balcony +knitting. There were some curious inscriptions on the walls of the +chalet, and the date was distinctly marked, "1670." + +An old woman over the way sat in her doorway spinning. She looked up as +the sledge stopped before the Gasthaus; but the young woman in the green +balcony went on knitting, and saw nothing. + +A buxom elderly Hausfrau, came out to greet the guests. She wore a +naturally kind expression on her old face, but when she saw who the +gentleman was, the kindness positive increased to kindness superlative. + +She first retired and called out: + +"Liza, Fritz, Liza, Truedchen, come quickly!" + +Then she came back, and cried: + +"Herr Allitsen, what a surprise!" + +She shook his hand times without number, greeted Bernardine with +motherly tenderness, and interspersed all her remarks with frantic +cries of "Liza, Fritz, Truedchen, make haste!" + +She became very hot and excited, and gesticulated violently. + +All this time the young woman sat knitting, but not looking up. She +had been beautiful, but her face was worn now, and her eyes had that +vacant stare which betokened the vacant mind. + +The mother whispered to Robert Allitsen: + +"She notices no one now; she sits there always waiting." + +Tears came into the kind old eyes. + +Robert Allitsen went and bent down to the young woman, and held out +his hand. + +"Catharina," he said gently. + +She looked up then, and saw him, and recognized him. + +Then the sad face smiled a welcome. + +He sat near her, and took her knitting in his hand, pretending to +examine what she had done, chatting to her quietly all the time. He +asked her what she had been doing with herself since he had last seen +her, and she said: + +"Waiting. I am always waiting." + +He knew that she referred to her lover, who had been lost in an +avalanche the eve before their wedding morning. That was four years ago, +but Catharina was still waiting. Allitsen remembered her as a bright +young girl, singing in the Gasthaus, waiting cheerfully on the guests: +a bright gracious presence. No one could cook trout as she could; many a +dish of trout had she served up for him. And now she sat in the sunshine, +knitting and waiting, scarcely ever looking up. That was her life. + +"Catharina," he said, as he gave her back her knitting, "do you remember +how you used to cook me the trout?" + +Another smile passed over her face. Yes, she remembered. + +"Will you cook me some to-day?" + +She shook her head, and returned to her knitting. + +Bernardine watched the Disagreeable Man with amazement. She could not +have believed that his manner could be so tender and kindly. The old +mother standing near her whispered: + +"He was always so good to us all; we love him, every one of us. When +poor Catharina was betrothed five years ago, it was to Herr Allitsen we +first told the good news. He has a wonderful way about him--just look at +him with Catharina now. She has not noticed any one for months, but she +knows him, you see." + +At that moment the other members of the household came: Liza, Fritz, and +Truedchen; Liza, a maiden of nineteen, of the homely Swiss type; Fritz, a +handsome lad of fourteen; and Truedchen, just free from school, with her +school-satchel swung on her back. There was no shyness in their greeting; +the Disagreeable Man was evidently an old and much-loved friend, and +inspired confidence, not awe. Truedchen fumbled in his coat pocket, and +found what she expected to find there, some sweets, which she immediately +began to eat, perfectly contented and self-satisfied. She smiled and +nodded at Robert Allitsen, as though to reassure him that the sweets +were not bad, and that she was enjoying them. + +"Liza will see to lunch," said the old mother. "You shall have some +mutton cutlets and some _forellen_. But before she goes, she has +something to tell you." + +"I am betrothed to Hans," Liza said, blushing. + +"I always knew you were fond of Hans," said the Disagreeable Man. +"He is a good fellow, Liza, and I'm glad you love him. But haven't you +just teased him!" + +"That was good for him," Liza said brightly. + +"Is he here to-day?" Robert Allitsen asked. + +Liza nodded. + +"Then I shall take your photographs," he said. + +While they had been speaking, Catharina rose from her seat, and passed +into the house. + +Her mother followed her, and watched her go into the kitchen. + +"I should like to cook the _forellen_," she said very quietly. + +It was months since she had done anything in the house. The old mother's +heart beat with pleasure. + +"Catharina, my best loved child!" she whispered; and she gathered the +poor suffering soul near to her. + +In about half an hour the Disagreeable Man and Bernardine sat down to +their meal. Robert Allitsen had ordered a bottle of Sassella, and he was +just pouring it out when Catharina brought in the _forellen_. + +"Why, Catharina," he said, "you don't mean you've cooked them? Then they +will be good!" She smiled, and seemed pleased, and then went out of the +room. + +Then he told Bernardine her history, and spoke with such kindness and +sympathy that Bernardine was again amazed at him. But she made no remark. + +"Catharina was always sorry that I was ill," he said. "When I stayed +here, as I have done, for weeks together, she used to take every care +of me. And it was a kindly sympathy which I could not resent. In those +days I was suffering more than I have done for a long time now, and she +was very pitiful. She could not bear to hear me cough. I used to tell +her that she must learn not to feel. But you see she did not learn her +lesson, for when this trouble came on her, she felt too much. And you +see what she is." + +They had a cheery meal together, and then Bernardine talked with the +old mother, whilst the Disagreeable Man busied himself with his camera. +Liza was for putting on her best dress, and doing her hair in some +wonderful way. But he would not hear of such a thing. But seeing that +she looked disappointed, he gave in, and said she should be photographed +just as she wished; and off she ran to change her attire. She went up to +her room a picturesque, homely working girl, and she came down a tidy, +awkward-looking young woman, with all her finery on, and all her charm +off. + +The Disagreeable Man grunted, but said nothing. + +Then Hans arrived, and then came the posing, which caused much +amusement. They both stood perfectly straight, just as a soldier stands +before presenting arms. Both faces were perfectly expressionless. The +Disagreeable Man was in despair. + +"Look happy!" he entreated. + +They tried to smile, but the anxiety to do so produced an expression of +melancholy which was too much for the gravity of the photographer. He +laughed heartily. + +"Look as though you weren't going to be photographed," he suggested. +"Liza, for goodness' sake look as though you were baking the bread; +and Hans, try and believe that you are doing some of your beautiful +carving." + +The patience of the photographer was something wonderful. At last he +succeeded in making them appear at their ease. And then he told Liza +that she must go and change her dress, and be photographed now in the +way he wished. She came down again, looking fifty times prettier in her +working clothes. + +Now he was in his element. He arranged Liza and Hans on the sledge of +timber, which had then driven up, and made a picturesque group of them +all: Hans and Liza sitting side by side on the timber, the horses +standing there so patiently after their long journey through the forests, +the driver leaning against his sledge smoking his long china pipe. + +"That will be something like a picture," he said to Bernardine, when the +performance was over. "Now I am going for about a mile's walk. Will you +come with me and see what I am going to photograph, or will you rest +here till I come back?" + +She chose the latter, and during his absence was shown the treasures +and possessions of a Swiss peasant's home. + +She was taken to see the cows in the stalls, and had a lecture given her +on the respective merits of Schneewitchen, a white cow, Kartoffelkuehen, +a dark brown one, and Roeslein, the beauty of them all. Then she looked +at the spinning-wheel, and watched the old Hausfrau turn the treadle. +And so the time passed, Bernardine making, good friends of them all. +Catharina had returned to her knitting, and began working, and, as +before, not noticing any one. But Bernardine sat by her side, playing +with the cat, and after a time Catharina looked up at Bernardine's +little thin face, and, after some hesitation, stroked it gently with +her hand. + +"Fraeulein is not strong," she said tenderly. "If Fraeulein lived here, +I should take care of her." + +That was a remnant of Catharina's past. She had always loved everything +that was ailing and weakly. + +Her hand rested on Bernardine's hand. Bernardine pressed it in kindly +sympathy, thinking the while of the girl's past happiness and present +bereavement. + +"Liza is betrothed," she said, as though to herself. "They don't tell +me; but I know. I was betrothed once." + +She went on knitting. And that was all she said of herself. + +Then after a pause she said: + +"Fraeulein is betrothed?" + +Bernardine smiled, and shook her head, and Catharina made no further +inquiries. But she looked up from her work from time to time, and seemed +pleased that Bernardine still stayed with her. At last the old mother +came to say that the coffee was ready, and Bernardine followed her into +the parlour. + +She watched Bernardine drinking the coffee, and finally poured herself +out a cup too. + +"This is the first time Herr Allitsen has ever brought a friend," she +said. "He has always been alone. Fraeulein is betrothed to Herr Allitsen-- +is that so? Ah, I am glad. He is so good and, so kind." + +Bernardine stopped drinking her coffee. + +"No, I am not betrothed," she said cheerily. "We are just friends; and +not always that either. We quarrel." + +"All lovers do that," persisted Frau Steinhart triumphantly. + +"Well, you ask him yourself," said Bernardine, much amused. She had +never looked upon Robert Allitsen in that light before. "See, there +he comes!" + +Bernardine was not present at the court martial, but this was what +occurred. Whilst the Disagreeable Man was paying the reckoning, Frau +Steinhart said in her most motherly tones: + +"Fraeulein is a very dear young lady: Herr Allitsen has made a wise +choice. He is betrothed at last!" + +The Disagreeable Man stopped counting out the money. + +"Stupid old Frau Steinhart!" he said good-naturedly. "People like myself +don't get betrothed. We get buried instead!" + +"Na, na!" she answered. "What a thing to say--and so unlike you too! +No, but tell me!" + +"Well, I am telling you the truth," he replied. "If you won't believe +me, ask Fraeulein herself." + +"I have asked her," said Frau Steinhart, "and she told me to ask you." + +The Disagreeable Man was much amused. He had never thought of Bernardine +in that way. + +He paid the bill, and then did something which rather astonished Frau +Steinhart, and half convinced her. + +He took the bill to Bernardine, told her the amount of her share, and +she repaid him then and there. + +There was a twinkle in her eye as she looked up at him. Then the +composure of her features relaxed, and she laughed. + +He laughed too, but no comment was made upon the episode. Then began +the goodbyes, and the preparations for the return journey. + +Bernardine bent over Catharina, and kissed her sad face. + +"Fraeulein will come again?" she whispered eagerly. + +And Bernardine promised. There was something in Bernardine's manner +which had won the poor girl's fancy: some unspoken sympathy, some quiet +geniality. + +Just as they were starting, Frau Steinhart whispered to Robert Allitsen: + +"It is a little disappointing to me, Herr Allitsen. I did so hope you +were betrothed." + +August, the blue-spectacled driver, cracked his whip, and off the horses +started homewards. + +For some time there was no conversation between the two occupants of the +sledge. Bernardine, was busy thinking about the experiences of the day, +and the Disagreeable Man seemed in a brown study. At last he broke the +silence by asking her how she liked his friends, and what she thought +of Swiss home life; and so the time passed pleasantly. + +He looked at her once, and said she seemed cold. + +"You are not warmly clothed," he said. "I have an extra coat. Put it on; +don't make a fuss but do so at once. I know the climate and you don't." + +She obeyed, and said she was all the cosier for it. As they were nearing +Petershof, he said half-nervously: + +"So my friends took you for my betrothed. I hope you are not offended." + +"Why should I be?" she said frankly. "I was only amused, because there +never were two people less lover-like than you and I are." + +"No, that's quite true," he replied, in a tone of voice which betokened +relief. + +"So that I really don't see that we need concern ourselves further in +the matter," she added wishing to put him quite at his ease. "I'm not +offended, and you are not offended, and there's an end of it." + +"You seem to me to be a very sensible young woman in some respects," the +Disagreeable Man remarked after a pause. He was now quite cheerful again, +and felt he could really praise his companion. "Although you have read +so much, you seem to me sometimes to take a sensible view of things. +Now, I don't want to be betrothed to you, any more than I suppose you +want to be betrothed to me. And yet we can talk quietly about the matter +without a scene. That would be impossible with most women." + +Bernardine laughed. "Well, I only know," she said cheerily, "that I have +enjoyed my day very much, and I'm much obliged to you for your +companionship. The fresh air, and the change of surroundings, will have +done me good." + +His reply was characteristic of him. + +"It is the least disagreeable day I have spent for many months," he said +quietly. + +"Let me settle with you for the sledge now," she said, drawing out her +purse, just as they came in sight of the Kurhaus. + +They settled money matters, and were quits. + +Then he helped her out of the sledge, and he stooped to pick up the +shawl she dropped. + +"Here is the shawl you are always dropping," he said. "You're rather +cold, aren't you? Here, come to the restaurant and have some brandy. +Don't make a fuss. I know what's the right thing for you!" + +She followed him to the restaurant, touched by his rough kindness. He +himself took nothing, but he paid for her brandy. + +That evening after _table-d'hote_, or rather after he had finished his +dinner, he rose to go to his room as usual. He generally went off +without a remark. But to-night he said: + +"Good-night, and thank you for your companionship. It has been my +birthday to-day, and I've quite enjoyed it." + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +"IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE." + + +THERE was a suicide in the Kurhaus one afternoon. A Dutchman, Vandervelt, +had received rather a bad account of himself from the doctor a few days +previously, and in a fit of depression, so it was thought, he had put a +bullet through his head. It had occurred through Marie's unconscious +agency. She found him lying on his sofa when she went as usual to take +him his afternoon glass of milk. He asked her to give him a packet which +was on the top shelf of his cupboard. + +"Willingly," she said, and she jumped nimbly on the chair, and gave him +the case. + +"Anything more?" she asked kindly, as she watched him draw himself up +from the sofa. She thought at the time that he looked wild and strange; +but then, as she pathetically said afterwards, who did not look wild +and strange in the Kurhaus? + +"Yes," he said. "Here are five francs for you." + +She thought that rather unusual too; but five francs, especially coming +unexpectedly like that, were not to be despised, and Marie determined to +send them off to that Mutterli at home in the nut-brown chalet at Gruesch. + +So she thanked Mynheer van Vandervelt, and went off to her pantry to +drink some cold tea which the English people had left, and to clean the +lamps. Having done that, and knowing that the matron was busily engaged +carrying on a flirtation with a young Frenchman, Marie took out her +writing materials, and began a letter to her old mother. These peasants +know how to love each other, and some of them know how to tell each +other too. Marie knew. And she told her mother of the gifts she was +bringing home, the little nothings given her by the guests. + +She was very happy writing this letter: the little nut-brown home rose +before her. + +"Ach!" she said, "how I long to be home!" + +And then she put down her pen, and sighed. + +"Ach!" she said, "and when I'm there, I shall long to be here. _Da wo +ich nicht bin, da ist das Gluck_." + +Marie was something of a philosopher. + +Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, followed by a second report. +She dashed out of her little pantry, and ran in the direction of the +sound. She saw Waerli in the passage. He was looking scared, and his +letters had fallen to the ground. He pointed to No. 54. + +It was the Dutchman's room. + +Help arrived. The door was forced open, and Vandervelt was found dead. +The case from which he had taken the pistol was lying on the sofa. When +Marie saw that, she knew that she had been an unconscious accomplice. +Her tender heart overflowed with grief. + +Whilst others were lifting him up, she leaned her head against the wall, +and sobbed. + +"It was my fault, it was my fault!" she cried. "I gave him the case. +But how was I to know?" + +They took her away, and tried to comfort her, but it was all in vain. + +"And he gave me five francs," she sobbed. "I shudder to think of them." + +It was all in vain that Waerli gave her a letter for which she had been +longing for many days. + +"It is from your _Mutterli_," he said, as he put it into her hands. "I +give it willingly. I don't like the look of one or two of the letters +I have to give you, Mariechen. That Hans writes to you. Confound him!" + +But nothing could cheer her. Waerli went away shaking his curly head +sadly, shocked at the death of the Dutchman, and shocked at Marie's +sorrow. And the cheery little postman did not do much whistling that +evening. + +Bernardine heard of Marie's trouble, and rang for her to come. Marie +answered the bell, looking the picture of misery. Her kind face was +tear-stained, and her only voice was a sob. + +Bernardine drew the girl to her. + +"Poor old Marie," she whispered. "Come and cry your kind heart out, and +then you will feel better. Sit by me here, and don't try to speak. And +I will make you some tea in true English fashion, and you must take it +hot, and it will do you good." + +The simple sisterly kindness and silent sympathy soothed Marie after a +time. The sobs ceased, and the tears also. And Marie put her hand in her +pocket and gave Bernardine the five francs. + +"Fraeulein Holme, I hate them." she said. "I could never keep them. How +could I send them now to my old mother? They would bring her ill luck-- +indeed they would." + +The matter was solved by Bernardine in a masterly fashion. She suggested +that Marie should buy flowers with the money, and put them on the +Dutchman's coffin. This idea comforted Marie beyond Bernardine's most +sanguine expectations. + +"A beautiful tin wreath," she said several times. "I know the exact kind. +When my father died, we put one on his grave." + +That same evening, during _table-d'hote_, Bernardine told the Disagreeable +Man the history of the afternoon. He had been developing photographs, +and had heard nothing. He seemed very little interested in her relation +of the suicide, and merely remarked: + +"Well, there's one person less in the world." + +"I think you make these remarks from habit," Bernardine said quietly, +and she went on with her dinner, attempting no further conversation with +him. She herself had been much moved by the sad occurrence; every one +in the Kurhaus was more or less upset; and there was a thoughtful, +anxious expression on more than one ordinarily thoughtless face. The +little French danseuse was quiet: the Portuguese ladies were decidedly +tearful, the vulgar German Baroness was quite depressed: the comedian at +the Belgian table ate his dinner in silence. In fact, there was a weight +pressing down on all. Was it really possible, thought Bernardine, that +Robert Allitsen was the only one there unconcerned and unmoved? She had +seen him in a different light amongst his friends, the country folk, +but it was just a glimpse which had not lasted long. The young- +heartedness, the geniality, the sympathy which had so astonished her +during their day's outing, astonished her still more by their total +disappearance. The gruffness had returned: or had it never been absent? +The lovelessness and leadenness of his temperament had once more +asserted themselves: or was it that they had never for one single day +been in the background? + +These thoughts passed through her mind as he sat next to her reading his +paper--that paper which he never passed on to any one. She hardened her +heart against him; there was no need for ill-health and disappointment +to have brought any one to a miserable state of indifference like that. +Then she looked at his wan face and frail form, and her heart softened +at once. At the moment when her heart softened to him, he astonished her +by handing her his paper. + +"Here is something to interest you," he said, "an article on Realism in +Fiction, or some nonsense like that. You needn't read it now. I don't +want the paper again.'' + +"I thought you never lent anything," she said, as she glanced at the +article, "much less gave it." + +"Giving and lending are not usually in my line," he replied. "I think I +told you once that I thought selfishness perfectly desirable and +legitimate, if one had made the one great sacrifice." + +"Yes," she said eagerly, "I have often wondered what you considered the +one great sacrifice." + +"Come out into the air," he answered, "and I will tell you." + +She went to put on her cloak and, hat, and found him waiting for her at +the top of the staircase. They passed out into the beautiful night: the +sky was radiantly bejewelled, the air crisp and cold, and harmless to do +ill. In the distance, the jodelling of some peasants. In the hotels, the +fun and merriment, side by side with the suffering and hopelessness. In +the deaconess's house, the body of the Dutchman. In God's heavens, God's +stars. + +Robert Allitsen and Bernardine walked silently for some time. + +"Well," she said, "now tell me." + +"The one great sacrifice," he said half to himself, "is the going on +living one's life for the sake of another, when everything that would +seem to make life acceptable has been wrenched away, not the pleasures, +but the duties, and the possibilities of expressing one's energies, +either in one direction or another: when, in fact, living is only a +long tedious dying. If one has made this sacrifice, everything else +may be forgiven." + +He paused a moment, and then continued: + +"I have made this sacrifice, therefore I consider I have done my part +without flinching. The greatest thing I had to give up, I gave up: my +death. More could not be required of any one!" + +He paused again, and Bernardine was silent from mere awe. + +"But freedom comes at last," he said, "and some day I shall be free. +When my mother dies, I shall be free. She is old. If I were to die, I +should break her heart, or, rather she would fancy that her heart was +broken. (And it comes to the same thing). And I should not like to give +her more grief than she has had. So I am just waiting, it may be months, +or weeks, or years. But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt +anything else, I have learnt how to wait. And then" . . . . + +Bernardine had unconsciously put her hand on his arm; her face was full +of suffering. + +"And then?" she asked, with almost painful eagerness. + +"And then I shall follow your Dutchman's example," he said deliberately. + +Bernardine's hand fell from the Disagreeable Man's arm. + +She shivered. + +"You are cold, you little thing," he said, almost tenderly for him. +"You are shivering." + +"Was I?" she said, with a short laugh. "I was wondering when you would +get your freedom, and whether you would use it in the fashion you now +intend!" + +"Why should there be any doubt?" he asked. + +"One always hopes there would be a doubt," she said, half in a whisper. + +Then he looked up, and saw all the pain on the little face. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN MAKES A LOAN. + + +THE Dutchman was buried in the little cemetery which faced the hospital. +Marie's tin wreath was placed on the grave. And there the matter ended. +The Kurhaus guests recovered from their depression: the German Baroness +returned to her buoyant vulgarity, the little danseuse to her busy +flirtations. The French Marchioness, celebrated in Parisian circles for +her domestic virtues, from which she was now taking a holiday, and a +very considerable holiday too, gathered her nerves together again and +took renewed pleasure in the society of the Russian gentleman. The +French Marchioness had already been requested to leave three other +hotels in Petershof; but it was not at all probable that the proprietors +of the Kurhaus would have presumed to measure Madame's morality or +immorality. The Kurhaus committee had a benign indulgence for humanity-- +provided of course that humanity had a purse--an indulgence which some +of the English hotels would not have done badly to imitate. There was a +story afloat concerning the English quarter, that a tired little English +lady, of no importance to look at, probably not rich, and probably not +handsome, came to the most respectable hotel in Petershof, thinking to +find there the peace and quiet which her weariness required. + +But no one knew who the little lady was, whence she had come, and why. +She kept entirely to herself, and was thankful for the luxury of +loneliness after some overwhelming sorrow. + +One day she was requested to go. The proprietor of the hotel was +distressed, but he could not do otherwise than comply with the demands +of his guests. + +"It is not known who you are, Mademoiselle," he said. "And you are not +approved of. You English are curious people. But what can I do? You +have a cheap room, and are a stranger to me. The others have expensive +apartments, and come year after year. You see my position, Mademoiselle? +I am sorry." + +So the little tired lady had to go. That was how the story went. It was +not known what became of her, but it was known that the English people +in the Kurhaus tried to persuade her to come to them. But she had lost +heart, and left in distress. + +This could not have happened in the Kurhaus, where all were received on +equal terms, those about whom nothing was known, and those about whom +too much was known. The strange mixture and the contrasts of character +afforded endless scope for observation and amusement, and Bernardine, +who was daily becoming more interested in her surroundings, felt that +she would have been sorry to have exchanged her present abode for the +English quarter. The amusing part of it was that the English people in +the Kurhaus were regarded by their compatriots in the English quarter +as sheep of the blackest dye! This was all the more ridiculous because +with two exceptions--firstly of Mrs. Reffold, who took nearly all her +pleasures with the American colony in the Grand Hotel; and secondly, +of a Scotch widow who had returned to Petershof to weep over her +husband's grave, but put away her grief together with her widow's +weeds, and consoled herself with a Spanish gentleman--with these two +exceptions, the little English community in the Kurhaus was most humdrum +and harmless, being occupied, as in the case of the Disagreeable Man, +with cameras and cheese-mites, or in other cases with the still more +engrossing pastime of taking care of one's ill-health, whether real or +fancied: but yet, an innocent hobby in itself and giving one absolutely +no leisure to do anything worse: a great recommendation for any pastime. + +This was not Bernardine's occupation: it was difficult to say what she +did with herself, for she had not yet followed Robert Allitsen's advice +and taken up some definite work: and the very fact that she had no such +wish, pointed probably to a state of health which forbade it. She, +naturally so keen and hard-working, was content to take what the hour +brought, and the hour brought various things: chess with the Swedish +professor, or Russian dominoes with the shrivelled-up little Polish +governess who always tried to cheat, and who clutched her tiny winnings +with precisely the same greediness shown by the Monte Carlo female +gamblers. Or the hour brought a stroll with the French danseuse and her +poodle, and a conversation about the mere trivialities of life, which a +year or two, or even a few months ago, Bernardine would have condemned +as beneath contempt, but, which were now taking their rightful place in +her new standard of importances. For some natures learn with greater +difficulty and after greater delay than others, that the real +importances of our existence are the nothingnesses of every-day life, +the nothingnesses which the philosopher in his study, reasoning about +and analysing human character, is apt to overlook; but which, +nevertheless, make him and every one else more of a human reality and +less of an abstraction. And Bernardine, hitherto occupied with so-called +intellectual pursuits, with problems of the study, of no value to the +great world outside the study, or with social problems of the great +world, great movements, and great questions, was now just beginning to +appreciate the value of the little incidents of that same great world. +Or the hour brought its own thoughts, and Bernardine found herself +constantly thinking of the Disagreeable Man: always in sorrow and always +with sympathy, and sometimes with tenderness. + +When he told her about the one sacrifice, she could have wished to wrap +him round with love and tenderness. If he could only have known it, he +had never been so near love as then. She had suffered so much herself, +and, with increasing weaknesses, had so wished to put off the burden of +the flesh, that her whole heart went out to him. + +Would he get his freedom, she wondered, and would he use it? Sometimes +when she was with him, she would look up to see whether she could read +the answer in his face; but she never saw any variation of expression +there, nothing to give her even a suggestion. But this she noticed: that +there was a marked variation in his manner, and that when he had been +rough in bearing, or bitter in speech, he made silent amends at the +earliest opportunity by being less rough and less bitter. She felt this +was no small concession on the part of the Disagreeable Man. + +He was particularly disagreeable on the day when the Dutchman was buried, +and so the following day when Bernardine met him in the little English +library, she was not surprised to find him almost kindly. + +He had chosen the book which she wanted, but he gave it up to her at once +without any grumbling, though Bernardine expected him to change his mind +before they left the library. + +"Well," he said, as they walked along together, "and have you recovered +from the death of the Dutchman?" + +"Have you recovered, rather let me ask?" she said. "You were in a horrid +mood last night." + +"I was feeling wretchedly ill," he said quietly. + +That was the first time he had ever alluded to his own health. + +"Not that there is any need to make an excuse," he continued, "for I do +not recognise that there is any necessity to consult one's surroundings, +and alter the inclination of one's mind accordingly. Still, as a matter +of fact, I felt very ill!" + +"And to-day?" she asked. + +"To-day I am myself again," he answered quickly: "that usual normal self +of mine, whatever that may mean. I slept well, and I dreamed of you. +I can't say that I had been thinking of you, because I had not. But I +dreamed that we were children together, and playmates. Now that was very +odd: because I was a lonely child, and never had any playmates." + +"And I was lonely too," said Bernardine. + +"Every one is lonely," he said, "but every one does not know it." + +"But now and again the knowledge comes like a revelation," she said, +"and we realise that we stand practically alone, out of any one's reach +for help or comfort. When you come to think of it, too, how little able +we are to explain ourselves. When you have wanted to say something which +was burning within you, have you not noticed on the face of the listener +that unmistakable look of non-comprehension, which throws you back on +yourself? That is one of the moments when the soul knows its own +loneliness!" + +Robert Allitsen looked up at her. + +"You little thing," he said, "you put things neatly sometimes. You have +felt, haven't you?" + +"I suppose so," she said. "But that is true of most people." + +"I beg your pardon," he answered, "most people neither think nor feel: +unless they think they have an ache, and then they feel it!" + +"I believe," said Bernardine, "that there is more thinking and feeling +than one generally supposes." + +"Well, I can't be bothered with that now," he said. "And you interrupted +me about my dream. That is an annoying habit you have." + +"Go on," she said. "I apologize!" + +"I dreamed we were children together, and playmates," he continued. "We +were not at all happy together, but still we were playmates. There was +nothing we did not quarrel about. You were disagreeable, and I was +spiteful. Our greatest dispute was over a Christmas-tree. And that was +odd, too, for I have never seen a Christmas-tree." + +"Well?" she said, for he had paused. "What a long time you take to tell +story." + +"You were not called Bernardine," he said. "You were called by some +ordinary sensible name. I don't remember what. But you were very +disagreeable. That I remember well. At last you disappeared, and I went +about looking for you. 'If I can find something to cause a quarrel,' +I said to myself, 'she will come back.' So I went and smashed your +doll's head. But you did not come back. Then I set on fire your doll's +house. But even that did not bring you back. Nothing brought you back. +That was my dream. I hope you are not offended. Not that it makes any +difference if you are." + +Bernardine laughed. + +"I am sorry that I should have been such an unpleasant playmate," she +said. "It was a good thing I did disappear." + +"Perhaps it was," he said. "There would have been a terrible scene about +that doll's head. An odd thing for me to dream about Christmas-trees and +dolls and playmates: especially when I went to sleep thinking about my +new camera." + +"You have a new camera?" she asked. + +"Yes," he answered, "and a beauty, too. Would you like to see it?" + +She expressed a wish to see it, and when they reached the Kurhaus, she +went with him up to his beautiful room, where he spent his time in the +company of his microscope and his chemical bottles and his photographic +possessions. + +"If you sit down and look at those photographs, I will make you some +tea," he said. "There is the camera, but please not to touch it until I +am ready to show it myself." + +She watched him preparing the tea; he did everything so daintily, this +Disagreeable Man. He put a handkerchief on the table, to serve for an +afternoon tea-cloth, and a tiny vase of violets formed the centre-piece. +He had no cups, but he polished up two tumblers, and no housemaid could +have been more particular, about their glossiness. Then he boiled the +water and made the tea. Once she offered to help him; but he shook his +head. + +"Kindly not to interfere." he said grimly. "No one can make tea better +than I can." + +After tea, they began the inspection of the new camera, and Robert +Allitsen showed her all the newest improvements. He did not seem to +think much of her intelligence, for he explained everything as though +he were talking to a child, until Bernardine rather lost patience. + +"You need not enter into such elaborate explanations," she suggested. +"I have a small amount of intelligence, though you do not seem to +detect it." + +He looked at her as one might look at an impatient child. + +"Kindly not to interrupt me," he replied mildly. "How very impatient you +are! And how restless! What must you have been like before you fell ill?" + +But he took the hint all the same, and shortened his explanations, and +as Bernardine was genuinely interested, he was well satisfied. From time +to time he looked at his old camera and at his companion, and from the +expression of unease on his face, it was evident that some contest was +going on in his mind. Twice he stood near his old camera, and turned +round to Bernardine intending to make some remark. Then he chanced his +mind, and walked abruptly to the other end of the room as though to seek +advice from his chemical bottles. Bernardine meanwhile had risen from +her chair, and was looking out of the window. + +"You have a lovely view," she said. "It must be nice to look at that +when you are tired of dissecting cheese-mites. All the same, I think +the white scenery gives one a great sense of sadness and loneliness." + +"Why do you speak always of loneliness?" he asked. + +"I have been thinking a good deal about it," she said. "When I was +strong and vigorous, the idea of loneliness never entered my mind. Now I +see how lonely most people are. If I believed in God as a Personal God, +I should be inclined to think that loneliness were part of his scheme: +so that the soul of man might turn to him and him alone." + +The Disagreeable Man was standing by his camera again: his decision was +made. + +"Don't think about those questions," he said kindly. "Don't worry and +fret too much about the philosophy of life. Leave philosophy alone, and +take to photography instead. Here, I will lend you my old camera." + +"Do you mean that?" she asked, glancing at him in astonishment. + +"Of course I mean it," he said. + +He looked remarkably pleased with himself, and Bernardine could not +help smiling. + +He looked just as a child looks when he has given up a toy to another +child, and is conscious that he has behaved himself rather well. + +"I am very much obliged to you," she said frankly. "I have had a great +wish to learn photography." + +"I might have lent my camera to you before, mightn't I?" he said +thoughtfully. + +"No," she answered. "There was not any reason." + +"No," he said, with a kind of relief, "there was not any reason. That +is quite true!" + +"When will you give me my first lesson?" she asked. "Perhaps, though, +you would like to wait a few days, in case you change your mind." + +"It takes me some time to make up my mind," he replied, "but I do not +change it. So I will give you your first lesson to-morrow. Only you +must not be impatient. You must consent to be taught; you cannot +possibly know everything!" + +They fixed a time for the morrow, and Bernardine went off with the +camera; and meeting Marie on the staircase, confided to her the piece +of good fortune which had befallen her. + +"See what Herr Allitsen has lent me, Marie!" she said. + +Marie raised her hands in astonishment. + +"Who would have thought such a thing of Herr Allitsen?" said Marie. +"Why, he does not like lending me a match." + +Bernardine laughed and passed on to her room. + +And the Disagreeable Man meanwhile was cutting a new scientific book +which had just come from England. He spent a good deal of money on +himself. He was soon absorbed in this book, and much interested in the +diagrams. + +Suddenly he looked up to the corner where the old camera had stood, +before Bernardine took it away in triumph. + +"I hope she won't hurt that camera," he said a little uneasily. +"I am half sorry that" . . . + +Then a kinder mood took possession of him. + +"Well, at least it will keep her from fussing and fretting and thinking. +Still, I hope she won't hurt it." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +A DOMESTIC SCENE. + + +ONE afternoon when Mrs. Reffold came to say good-bye to her husband +before going out for the usual sledge-drive, he surprised her by his +unwonted manner. + +"Take your cloak off," he said sharply. "You cannot go for your drive +this afternoon. You don't often give up your time to me; you must do so +to-day." + +She was so astonished, that she at once laid aside her cloak and hat, +and touched the bell. + +"Why are you ringing?" Mr. Reffold asked testily. + +"To send a message of excuse," she answered, with provoking cheerfulness. + +She scribbled something on a card, and gave it to the servant who +answered the bell. + +"Now," she said, with great sweetness of manner. And she sat down beside +him, drew out her fancy-work, and worked away contentedly. She would +have made a charming study of a devoted wife soothing a much-loved +husband in his hours of sickness and weariness. + +"Do you mind giving up your drive?" he asked. + +"Not in the least," she replied. "I am rather tired of sledging." + +"You soon get tired of things, Winifred," he said. + +"Yes, I do," was the answer. "I am so easily bored. I am quite tired of +this place." + +"You will have to stay here a little longer," he said, "and then you +will be free to go where you choose. I wish I could die quicker for you, +Winifred." + +Mrs. Reffold looked up from her embroidery. + +"You will get better soon," she said. "You are better." + +"Yes, you've helped a good deal to make me better," he said bitterly. +"You have been a most unselfish person haven't you? You have given me +every care and attention, haven't you?" + +"You seem to me in a very strange mood to-day," she said, looking +puzzled. "I don't understand you." + +Mr. Reffold laughed. + +"Poor Winifred," he said. "If it is ever your lot to fall ill and be +neglected, perhaps then you will think of me." + +"Neglected?" she said, in some surprise. "What do you mean? I thought +you had everything you wanted. The nurse brought excellent testimonials. +I was careful in the choice of her. You have never complained before." + +He turned wearily on his side, and made no answer. And for some time +there was silence between them. + +Then he watched her as she bent over her embroidery. + +"You are very beautiful, Winifred," he said quietly, "but you are a +selfish woman. Has it ever struck you that you are selfish?" + +Mrs. Reffold gave no reply, but she made a resolution to write to her +particular friend at Cannes and confide to her how very trying her +husband had become. + +"I suppose it is part of his illness," she thought meekly. "But it is +hard to have to bear it." + +And Mrs. Reffold pitied herself profoundly. She stitched sincere pity +for herself into that piece of embroidery. + +"I remember you telling me," continued Mr. Reffold, "that sick people +repelled you. That was when I was strong and vigorous. But since I have +been ill, I have often recalled your words. Poor Winifred! You did not +think then that you would have an invalid husband on your hands. Well, +you were not intended for sick-room nursing, and you have not tried to +be what you were not intended for. Perhaps you were right, after all." + +"I don't know why you should be so unkind to-day," Mrs. Reffold said, +with pathetic patience. "I can't understand you. You have never spoken +like this before." + +"No," he said; "but I have thought like this before. All the hours you +have left me lonely, I have been thinking like this, with my heart full +of bitterness against you, until that little girl, that Little Brick +came along." + +After that, it was some time before he spoke. He was thinking of his +Little Brick, and of all the pleasant hours he had spent with her, and +of the kind, wise words she had spoken to him, an ignorant fellow. She +was something like a companion. + +So he went on thinking, and Mrs. Reffold went on embroidering. She was +now feeling herself to be almost a heroine. It is a very easy matter to +make oneself into a heroine or a martyr. Selfish, neglectful? What did +he mean? Oh, it was just part of his illness. She must go on bearing her +burden as she had borne it these many months. Her rightful position was +in a London ball-room. Instead of which, she had to be shut up in an +Alpine village: a hard lot. It was little enough pleasure she could get, +and apparently her husband grudged her that. His manner to her this +afternoon was not such as to encourage her to stay in from her drive on +another occasion. To-morrow she would go sledging. + +That flash of light which reveals ourselves to ourselves had not yet +come to Mrs. Reffold. + +She looked at her husband, and thought from his restfulness that he had +gone to sleep, and she was just beginning to write to that particular +friend at Cannes, to tell her what a trial she was undergoing, when +Mr. Reffold called her to his side. + +"Winifred," he said gently, and there was tenderness in his voice, and +love written on his face, "Winifred, I am sorry if I have been sharp to +you. Little Brick says we mustn't come down like sledge-hammers on each +other; and that is what I have been doing this afternoon. Perhaps I have +been hard: I am such an illness to myself, that I must be an illness to +others too. And you weren't meant for this sort of thing--were you? You +are a bright beautiful creature, and I am an unfortunate dog not to have +been able to make you happier. I know I am irritable. I can't help +myself, indeed I can't." + +This great long fellow was so yearning for love and sympathy. + +What would it not have been to him if she had gathered him into her +arms, and soothed all his irritability and suffering with her love? + +But she pressed his hand, and kissed him lightly on the cheek, and told +him that he had been a little sharp, but that she quite understood, and +that she was not hurt. Her charm of manner gave him some satisfaction; +and when Bernardine came in a few minutes later, she found Mr. Reffold +looking happier and more contented than she had ever seen him. +Mrs. Reffold, who was relieved at the interruption, received Bernardine +warmly, though there was a certain amount of shyness which she had never +been able to conquer in Bernardine's presence. There was something in +the younger woman which quelled Mrs. Reffold: it may have been some +mental quality, or it may have been her boots! + +"Little Brick," said Mr. Reffold, "isn't it nice to have Winifred here? +And I have been so disagreeable and snappish." + +"Oh, we won't say anything about that now," said Mrs. Reffold, smiling +sweetly. + +"But I've said I am sorry," he continued. "And one can't do more." + +"No," said Bernardine, who was amused at the notion of Mr. Reffold +apologizing to Mrs. Reffold, and of Mrs. Reffold posing as the gracious +forgiver, "one can't do more." But she could not control her feelings, +and she laughed. + +"You seem rather merry this afternoon," Mr. Reffold said, in a +reproachful tone of voice. + +"Yes," she said. And she laughed again. Mrs. Reffold's forgiving +graciousness had altogether upset her gravity. + +"You might at least tell us the joke," Mrs. Reffold said. Bernardine +looked at her hopelessly, and laughed again. + +"I have been developing photographs all the afternoon," she said, "and +I suppose the closeness of the air and the badness of my negatives have +been too much for me. Anyway, I know I must seem very rude." + +She recovered herself after that, and tried hard not to think of +Mrs. Reffold as the dispenser of forgiveness, although it was some time +before she could look at her hostess without wishing to laugh. The +corners of her mouth twitched, and her brown eyes twinkled mischievously, +and she spoke very rapidly, making fun of her first attempts at +photography, and criticising herself so comically, that both Mr. and +Mrs. Reffold were much amused. + +All the same, Bernardine was relieved when Mrs. Reffold went to fetch +some silks, and left her with Mr. Reffold. + +"I am very happy this afternoon, Little Brick," he said to her. "My +wife has been sitting with me. But instead of enjoying the pleasure as +I ought to have done, I began to find fault with her. I don't know how +long I should not have gone on grumbling, but that I suddenly +recollected what you taught me: that we were not to come down like +sledge-hammers on each other's failings. When I remembered that, it was +quite easy to forgive all the neglect and thoughtlessness. Since you +have talked to me, Little Brick, everything has become easier to me!" + +"It is something in your own mind which has worked this," she said; +"your own kind, generous mind, and you put it down to my words!" + +But he shook his head. + +"If I knew of any poor unfortunate devil that wanted to be eased and +comforted," he said, "I should tell him about you, Little Brick. You +have been very good to me. You may be clever, but you have never worried +my stupid brain with too much scholarship. I'm just an ignorant chap, +and you've never let me feel it." + +He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. + +"I say," he continued, "tell my wife it made me happy to have her with +me this afternoon; then perhaps she will stay in another time. I should +like her to know. And she was sweet in her manner, wasn't she? And, by +Jove, she is beautiful! I am glad you have seen her here to-day. It must +be dull for her with an invalid like me. And I know I am irritable. Go +and tell her that she made me happy--will you?" + +The little bit of happiness at which the poor fellow snatched, seemed +to make him more pathetic than before. Bernardine promised to tell his +wife, and went off to find her, making as an excuse a book which +Mrs. Reffold had offered to lend her. Mrs. Reffold was in her bedroom. +She asked. Bernardine to sit down whilst she searched for the book. +She had a very gracious manner when she chose. + +"You are looking much better, Miss Holme," she said kindly. "I cannot +help noticing your face. It looks younger and brighter. The bracing air +has done you good." + +"Yes, I am better," Bernardine said, rather astonished that Mrs. Reffold +should have noticed her at all. "Mr. Allitsen informs me that I shall +live, but never be strong. He settles every question of that sort to his +own satisfaction, but not always to the satisfaction of other people!" + +"He is a curious person," Mrs. Reffold said smiling; "though I must say +he is not quite as gruff as he used to be. You seem to be good friends +with him." + +She would have liked to say more on this subject, but experience had +taught her that Bernardine was not to be trifled with. + +"I don't know about being good friends," Bernardine said, "but I have a +great sympathy for him. I know myself what it is to be cut off from +work and active life. I have been through a misery. But mine is nothing +to his." + +She rose to go, but Mrs. Reffold detained her. + +"Don't go yet," she said. "It is pleasant to have you." + +She was leaning back in an arm-chair playing with the fringe of an +antimacassar. + +"Oh, how tired I am of this horrid place!" she said suddenly. "And I +have had a most wearying afternoon. Mr. Reffold seems to be more +irritable every day. It is very hard that I should have to bear it." + +Bernardine listened to her in astonishment. + +"Yes," she added, "I am quite worn out. He never used to be so +irritable. It is all very tiresome. It is quite telling on my health." + +She looked the picture of health. + +Bernardine gasped; and Mrs. Reffold continued: + +"His grumbling this afternoon has been incessant; so much so that he +himself was ashamed, and asked me to forgive him. You heard him, didn't +you?" + +"Yes, I heard him," Bernardine said. + +"And of course I forgave him at once," Mrs. Reffold said piously. +"Naturally one would do that, but the vexation remains all the same." + +"Can these things be?" thought Bernardine to herself. + +"He spoke in a most ridiculous way," she went on: "it certainly is not +encouraging for me to spend another afternoon with him. I shall go +sledging to-morrow." + +"You generally do go sledging, don't you?" Bernardine asked mildly. + +Mrs. Reffold looked at her suspiciously. She was never quite sure that +Bernardine was not making fun of her. + +"It is little enough pleasure I do have," she added, as though in self- +defence. "And he seems to grudge me that too." + +"I don't think he would grudge you anything," Bernardine said, with +some warmth. "He loves you too much for that. You don't know how much +pleasure you give him when you spare him a little of your time. He told +me how happy you made him this afternoon. You could see for yourself +that he was happy. Mrs. Reffold, make him happy whilst you still have +him. Don't you understand that he is passing away from you--don't you +understand, or is it that you won't? We all see it, all except you!" + +She stopped suddenly, surprised at her boldness. + +Mrs. Reffold was still leaning back in the arm-chair, her hands clasped +together above her beautiful head. Her face was pale. She did not speak. +Bernardine waited. The silence was unbroken save by the merry cries of +some children tobogganing in the Kurhaus garden. The stillness grew +oppressive, and Bernardine rose. She knew from the effort which those +few words had cost her, how far removed she was from her old former self. + +"Good-bye, Mrs. Reffold," she said nervously. + +"Good-bye, Miss Holme," was the only answer. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS + + +THE Doctors in Petershof always said that the caretakers of the invalids +were a much greater anxiety than the invalids themselves. The invalids +would either get better or die: one of two things probably. At any rate, +you knew where you were with them. But not so with the caretakers: there +was nothing they were not capable of doing--except taking reasonable +care of their invalids! They either fussed about too much, or else they +did not fuss about at all. They all began by doing the right thing: they +all ended by doing the wrong. The fussy ones had fits of apathy, when +the poor irritable patients seemed to get a little better; the negligent +ones had paroxysms of attentiveness, when their invalids, accustomed to +loneliness and neglect, seemed to become rather worse by being worried. + +To remonstrate with the caretakers would have been folly: for they were +well satisfied with their own methods. + +To contrive their departure would have been an impossibility: for they +were firmly convinced that their presence was necessary to the welfare +of their charges. And then, too, judging from the way in which they +managed to amuse themselves, they liked being in Petershof, though they +never owned that to the invalids. On the contrary, it was the custom for +the caretakers to depreciate the place, and to deplore the necessity +which obliged them to continue there month after month. They were fond, +too, of talking about the sacrifices which they made, and the pleasures +which they willingly gave up in order to stay with their invalids. They +said this in the presence of their invalids. And if the latter had told +them by all means to pack up and go back to the pleasures which they +had renounced, they would have been astonished at the ingratitude which +could suggest the idea. + +They were amusing characters, these caretakers. They were so thoroughly +unconscious of their own deficiencies. They might neglect their own +invalids, but they would look after other people's invalids, and play +the nurse most soothingly and prettily where there was no call and no +occasion. Then they would come and relate to their neglected dear ones +what they had been doing for others: and the dear ones would smile +quietly, and watch the buttons being stitched on for strangers, and the +cornflour which they could not get nicely made for themselves, being +carefully prepared for other people's neglected dear ones. + +Some of the dear ones were rather bitter. But there were many of a +higher order of intelligence, who seemed to realize that they had no +right to be ill, and that being ill, and therefore a burden on their +friends, they must make the best of everything, and be grateful for +what was given them, and patient when anything was withheld. Others of +a still higher order of understanding, attributed the eccentricities of +the caretakers to one cause alone: the Petershof air. They know it had +the invariable effect of getting into the head, and upsetting the +balance of those who drank deep of it. Therefore no one was to blame, +and no one need be bitter. But these were the philosophers of the +colony: a select and dainty few in any colony. But there were several +rebels amongst the invalids, and they found consolation in confiding to +each other their separate grievances. They generally held their +conferences in the rooms known as the newspaper-rooms, where they were +not likely to be interrupted by any caretakers who might have stayed at +home because they were tired out. + +To-day there were only a few rebels gathered together, but they were +more than usually excited, because the Doctors had told several of them +that their respective caretakers must be sent home. + +"What must I do?" said little Mdlle. Gerardy, wringing her hands. "The +Doctor says that I must tell my sister to go home: that she only worries +me, and makes me worse. He calls her a 'whirlwind.' If I won't tell her, +then he will tell her, and we shall have some more scenes. Mon Dieu! and +I am so tired of them. They terrify me. I would suffer anything rather +than have a fresh scene. And I can't get her to do anything for me. +She has no time for me. And, yet she thinks she takes the greatest +possible care of me, and devotes the whole day to me. Why, sometimes I +never see her for hours together." + +"Well, at least she does not quarrel with every one, as my mother does," +said a Polish gentleman, M. Lichinsky. "Nearly every day she has a +quarrel with some one or other; and then she comes to me and says she +has been insulted. And others come to me mad with rage, and complain +that they have been insulted by her. As though I were to blame! I tell +them that now. I tell them that my mother's quarrels are not my quarrels. +But one longs for peace. And the Doctor says I must have it, and that +my mother must go home at once. If I tell her that, she will have a +tremendous quarrel with the Doctor. As it is, he will scarcely speak to +her. So you see, Mademoiselle Gerardy, that I, too, am in a bad plight. +What am I to do?" + +Then a young American spoke. He had been getting gradually worse since +he came to Petershof, but his brother, a bright sturdy young fellow, +seemed quite unconscious of the seriousness of his condition. + +"And what am I to do?" he asked pathetically. "My brother does not even +think I am ill. He says I am to rouse myself and come skating and +tobogganing with him. Then I tell him that the Doctor says I must lie +quietly in the sun. I have no one to take care of me, so I try to take +a little care of myself, and then I am laughed at. It is bad enough to +be ill; but it is worse when those who might help you a little, won't +even believe in your illness. I wrote home once and told them; but they +go by what he says; and they, too, tell me to rouse myself." + +His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were leaden. There was no power in his +voice, no vigour in his frame. He was just slipping quickly down the +hill for want of proper care and understanding. + +"I don't know whether I am much better off than you," said an English +lady, Mrs. Bridgetower. "I certainly have a trained nurse to look after +me, but she is altogether too much for me, and she does just as she +pleases. She is always ailing, or else pretends to be; and she is always +depressed. She grumbles from eight in the morning till nine at night. +I have heard that she is cheerful with other people, but she never gives +me the benefit of her brightness. Poor thing! She does feel the cold +very much, but it is not very cheering to see her crouching near the +stove, with her arms almost clasping it! When she is not talking of her +own looks, all she says is: 'Oh, if I had only not come to Petershof!' +or, 'Why did I ever leave that hospital in Manchester?' or, 'The cold +is eating into the very marrow of my bones.' At first she used to read +to me; but it was such a dismal performance that I could not bear to +hear her. Why don't I send her home? Well, my husband will not hear of +me being alone, and he thinks I might do worse than keep Nurse Frances. +And perhaps I might." + +"I would give a good deal to have a sister like pretty Fraeulein Mueller +has," said little Fraeulein Oberhof. "She came to look after me the other +day when I was alone. She has the kindest way about her. But when my +sister came in, she was not pleased to find Fraeulein Sophie Mueller with +me. She does not do anything for me herself, and she does not like any +one else to do anything either. Still, she is very good to other people. +She comes up from the theatre sometimes at half-past nine--that is the +hour when I am just sleepy--and she stamps about the room, and makes +cornflour for the old Polish lady. Then off she goes, taking with her +the cornflour together with my sleep. Once I complained, but she said I +was irritable. You can't think how teasing it is to hear the noise of +the spoon stirring the cornflour just when you are feeling drowsy. You +say to yourself, 'Will that cornflour never be made? It seems to take +centuries.'" + +"One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself," said +M. Lichinsky. "But at least, Fraeulein, your sister does not quarrel +with every one. You must be grateful for that mercy!" + +Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room. +She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She +spoke with a whirlwind of Polish words. It is sometimes difficult to +know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there +was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose +from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his +confederates, and shrugged his shoulders. + +"Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING. + + +"YOU may have talent for other things," Robert Allitsen said one day to +Bernardine, "but you certainly have no talent for photography. You have +not made the slightest progress." + +"I don't at all agree with you," Bernardine answered rather peevishly. +"I think I am getting on very well." + +"You are no judge," he said. "To begin with, you cannot focus properly. +You have a crooked eye. I have told you that several times!" + +"You certainly have," she put in. "You don't let me forget that." + +"Your photograph of that horrid little danseuse whom you like so much," +he said, "is simply abominable. She looks like a fury. Well, she may be +one for all I know, but in real life she has not the appearance of one." + +"I think that is the best photograph I have done," Bernardine said, +highly indignant. She could tolerate his uppishness about subjects of +which she knew far more than he did; but his masterfulness about a +subject of which she really knew nothing was more than she could bear +with patience. He had not the tact to see that she was irritated. + +"I don't know about it being the best," he said; "unless it is the best +specimen of your inexperience. Looked at from that point of view, it +does stand first!" + +She flushed crimson with temper. + +"Nothing is easier than to make fun of others," she said fiercely. "It +is the resource of the ignorant." + +Then, after the fashion of angry women, having said her say, she stalked +away. If there had been a door to bang, she would certainly have banged +it. However, she did what she could under the circumstances: she pushed +a curtain roughly aside, and passed into the concert-room, where every +night of the season's six months, a scratchy string orchestra entertained +the Kurhaus guests. She left the Disagreeable Man standing in the passage. + +"Dear me," he said thoughtfully. And he stroked his chin. Then he trudged +slowly up to his room. + +"Dear me," he said once more. + +Arrived in his bedroom, he began to read. But after a few minutes he +shut his book, took the lamp to the looking-glass and brushed his hair. +Then he put on a black coat and a white silk tie. There was a speck of +dust on the coat. He carefully removed that, and then extinguished the +lamp. + +On his way downstairs he met Marie, who gazed at him in astonishment. +It was quite unusual for him to be seen again when he had once come up +from _table-d'hote_. She noticed the black coat and the white silk tie +too, and reported on these eccentricities to her colleague Anna. + +The Disagreeable Man meanwhile had reached the Concert Hall. He glanced +around, and saw where Bernardine was sitting, and then chose a place in +the opposite direction, quite by himself. He looked somewhat like a dog +who has been well beaten. Now and again he looked up to see whether she +still kept her seat. The bad music was a great irritation to him. But he +stayed on heroically. There was no reason why he should stay. Gradually, +too, the audience began to thin. Still he lingered, always looking like +a dog in punishment. + +At last Bernardine rose, and the Disagreeable Man rose too. He followed +her humbly to the door. She turned and saw him. + +"I am sorry I put you in a bad temper," he said. "It was stupid of me." + +"I am sorry I got into a bad temper," she answered, laughing. "It was +stupid of me." + +"I think I have said enough to apologize," he said. "It is a process I +dislike very much." + +And with that he wished her good-night and went to his room. + +But that was not the end of the matter, for the next day when he was +taking his breakfast with her, he of his own accord returned to the +subject. + +"It was partly your own fault that I vexed you last night," he said. +"You have never before been touchy, and so I have become accustomed to +saying what I choose. And it is not in my nature to be flattering." + +"That is a very truthful statement of yours," she said, as she poured +out her coffee. "But I own I was touchy. And so I shall be again if you +make such cutting remarks about my photographs!" + +"You have a crooked eye," he said grimly. "Look there, for instance! +You have poured your coffee outside the cup. Of course you can do as +you like, but the usual custom is to pour it inside the cup." + +They both laughed, and the good understanding between them was cemented +again. + +"You are certainly getting better," he said suddenly. "I should not be +surprised if you were able to write a book after all. Not that a new +book is wanted. There are too many books as it is; and not enough people +to dust them. Still, it is not probable that you would be considerate +enough to remember that. You will write your book." + +Bernardine shook her head. + +"I don't seem to care now," she said. "I think I could now be content +with a quieter and more useful part." + +"You will write your book," he continued. "Now listen to me. Whatever +else you may do, don't make your characters hold long discussions with +each other. In real life, people do not talk four pages at a time +without stopping. Also, if you bring together two clever men, don't make +them talk cleverly. Clever people do not. It is only the stupid who +think they must talk cleverly all the time. And don't detain your reader +too long: if you must have a sunset, let it be a short one. I could give +you many more hints which would be useful to you." + +"But why not use your own hints for yourself?" she suggested. + +"That would be selfish of me," he said solemnly. "I wish you to profit +by them." + +"You are learning to be unselfish at a very rapid rate," Bernardine said. + +At that moment Mrs. Reffold came into the breakfast-room, and, seeing +Bernardine, gave her a stiff bow. + +"I thought you and Mrs. Reffold were such friends," Robert Allitsen said. + +Bernardine then told him of her last interview with Mrs. Reffold. + +"Well, if you feel uncomfortable, it is as it should be," he said. "I +don't see what business you had to point out to Mrs. Reffold her duty. +I dare say she knows it quite well though she may not choose to do it. +I am sure I should resent it, if any one pointed out my duty to me. +Every one knows his own duty. And it is his own affair whether or not +he does it." + +"I wonder if you are right," Bernardine said. "I never meant to presume; +but her indifference had exasperated me." + +"Why should you be exasperated about other people's affairs?" he said. +"And why interfere at all?" + +"Being interested is not the same as being interfering," she replied +quickly. + +"It is difficult to be the one without being the other," he said. "It +requires a genius. There is a genius for being sympathetic as well as +a genius for being good. And geniuses are few." + +"But I knew one," Bernardine said. "There was a friend to whom in the +first days of my trouble I turned for sympathy. When others only +irritated, she could soothe. She had only to come into my room, and +all was well with me." + +There were tears in Bernardine's eyes as she spoke. + +"Well," said the Disagreeable Man kindly, "and where is your genius now?" + +"She went away, she and hers," Bernardine said "And that was the end of +that chapter!" + +"Poor little child," he said, half to himself. "Don't I too know +something about the ending of such a chapter?" + +But Bernardine did not hear him; she was thinking of her friend. She was +thinking, as we all think, that those to whom in our suffering we turn +for sympathy, become hallowed beings. Saints they may not be; but for +want of a better name, saints they are to us, gracious and lovely +presences. The great time Eternity, the great space Death, could not rob +them of their saintship; for they were canonized by our bitterest tears. + +She was roused from her reverie by the Disagreeable Man, who got up, and +pushed his chair noisily under the table. + +"Will you come and help me to develop some photographs?" he asked +cheerily. "You do not need to have a straight eye for that!" + +Then as they went along together, he said: + +"When we come to think about it seriously, it is rather absurd for us to +expect to have uninterrupted stretches of happiness. Happiness falls to +our share in separate detached bits; and those of us who are wise, +content ourselves with these broken fragments." + +"But who is wise?" Bernardine asked. "Why, we all expect to be happy. +No one told us that we were to be happy. Still, though no one told us, +it is the true instinct of human nature." + +"It would be interesting to know at what particular period of evolution +into our present glorious types we felt that instinct for the first +time," he said. "The sunshine must have had something to do with it. +You see how a dog throws itself down in the sunshine; the most wretched +cur heaves a sigh of content then; the sulkiest cat begins to purr." + +They were standing outside the room set apart for the photograph-maniacs +of the Kurhaus. + +"I cannot go into that horrid little hole," Bernardine said. "And +besides, I have promised to play chess with the Swedish professor. +And after that I am going to photograph Marie. I promised Waerli I would." + +The Disagreeable Man smiled grimly. + +"I hope he will be able to recognize her!" he said. Then, feeling that +he was on dangerous ground, he added quickly: + +"If you want any more plates, I can oblige you." + +On her way to her room she stopped to talk to pretty Fraeulein Mueller, +who was in high spirits, having had an excellent report from the Doctor. +Fraeulein Mueller always insisted on talking English with Bernardine; and +as her knowledge of it was limited, a certain amount of imagination was +necessary to enable her to be understood. + +"Ah, Miss Holme," she said, "I have deceived an exquisite report from +the Doctor." + +"You are looking ever so well," Bernardine said. "And the love-making +with the Spanish gentleman goes on well, too?" + +"Ach!" was the merry answer. "That is your inventory! I am quite +indolent to him!" + +At that moment the Spanish gentleman came out of the Kurhaus flower- +shop, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. + +"Mademoiselle," he said, handing them to Fraeulein Mueller, and at the +same time putting his hand to his heart. He had not noticed Bernardine +at first, and when he saw her, he became somewhat confused. She smiled +at them both, and escaped into the flower-shop, which was situated in +one of the covered passages connecting the mother-building with the +dependencies. Herr Schmidt, the gardener, was making a wreath. His +favourite companion, a saffron cat, was playing with the wire. Schmidt +was rather an ill-tempered man, but he liked Bernardine. + +"I have put these violets aside for you, Fraeulein," he said, in his +sulky way. "I meant to have sent them to your room, but have been +interrupted in my work." + +"You spoil me with your gifts," she said. + +"You spoil my cat with the milk," he replied, looking up from his work. + +"That is a beautiful wreath you are making, Herr Schmidt," she said. +"Who has died? Any one in the Kurhaus?" + +"No, Fraeulein. But I ought to keep my door locked when I make these +wreaths. People get frightened, and think they, too, are going to die. +Shall you be frightened, I wonder?" + +"No, I believe not," she answered as she took possession of her violets, +and stroked the saffron cat. "But I am glad no one has died here." + +"It is for a young, beautiful lady," he said. "She was in the Kurhaus +two years ago. I liked her. So I am taking extra pains. She did not care +for the flowers to be wired. So I am trying my best without the wire. +But it is difficult." + +She left him to his work, and went away, thinking. All the time she had +now been in Petershof had not sufficed to make her indifferent to the +sadness of her surroundings. In vain the Disagreeable Man's preachings, +in vain her own reasonings with herself. + +These people here who suffered, and faded, and passed away, who were +they to her? + +Why should the faintest shadow steal across her soul on account of them? + +There was no reason. And still she felt for them all, she who in the old +days would have thought it waste of time to spare a moment's reflection +on anything so unimportant as the sufferings of an _individual_ human +being. + +And the bridge between her former and her present self was her own +illness. + +What dull-minded sheep we must all be, how lacking in the very elements +of imagination, since we are only able to learn by personal experience +of grief and suffering, something about the suffering and grief of +others! + +Yea, how the dogs must wonder at us: those dogs who know when we are in +pain or trouble, and nestle nearer to us. + +So Bernardine reached her own door. She heard her name called, and, +turning round, saw Mrs. Reffold. There was a scared look on the +beautiful face. + +"Miss Holme," she said, "I have been sent for--I daren't go to him +alone--I want you--he is worse. I am" . . . . + +Bernardine took her hand, and the two women hurried away in silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE. + + +BERNARDINE had seen Mr. Reffold the previous day. She had sat by his +side and held his hand. He had smiled at her many times, but he only +spoke once. + +"Little Brick," he whispered--for his voice had become nothing but a +whisper. "I remember all you told me. God bless you. But what a long +time it does take to die." + +But that was yesterday. + +The lane had come to an ending at last, and Mr. Reffold lay dead. + +They bore him to the little mortuary chapel. And Bernardine stayed with +Mrs. Reffold, who seemed afraid to be alone. She clung to Bernardine's +hand. + +"No, no," she said excitedly, "you must not go! I can't bear to be +alone: you must stay with me!" + +She expressed no sorrow, no regret. She did not even speak his name. +She just sat nursing her beautiful face. + +Once or twice Bernardine tried to slip away. This waiting about was a +strain on her, and she felt that she was doing no good. + +But each time Mrs. Reffold looked up and prevented her. + +"No, no," she said. "I can't bear myself without you. I must have you +near me. Why should you leave me?" + +So Bernardine lingered. She tried to read a book which lay on the table. +She counted the lines and dots on the wall-paper. She thought about the +dead man; and about the living woman. She had pitied him; but when she +looked at the stricken face of his wife, Bernardine's whole heart rose +up in pity for her. Remorse would come, although it might not remain +long. The soul would see itself face to face for one brief moment; and +then forget its own likeness. + +But for the moment--what a weight of suffering, what a whole century of +agony! + +Bernardine grew very tender for Mrs. Reffold: she bent over the sofa, +and fondled the beautiful face. + +"Mrs. Reffold" . . . she whispered. + +That was all she said: but it was enough. + +Mrs. Reffold burst into an agony of tears. + +"Oh, Miss Holme," she sobbed, "and I was not even kind to him! And now +it is too late. How can I ever bear myself?" + +And then it was that the soul knew its own remorse. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES. + + +SHE had left him alone and neglected for whole hours when he was alive. +And now when he was dead, and it probably mattered little to him where +he was laid, it was some time before she could make up her mind to +leave him in the lonely little Petershof cemetery. + +"It will be so dreary for him there," she said to the Doctor. + +"Not so dreary as you made it for him here," thought the Doctor. + +But he did not say that: he just urged her quietly to have her husband +buried in Petershof; and she yielded. + +So they laid him to rest in the dreary cemetery. + +Bernardine went to the funeral, much against the Disagreeable Man's wish. + +"You are looking like a ghost yourself," he said to her. "Come out with +me into the country instead." + +But she shook her head. + +"Another day," she said. "And Mrs. Reffold wants me. I can't leave her +alone, for she is so miserable." + +The Disagreeable Man shrugged his shoulders, and went off by himself. + +Mrs. Reffold clung very much to Bernardine those last days before she +left Petershof. She had decided to go to Wiesbaden, where she had +relations; and she invited Bernardine to go with her: it was more than +that, she almost begged her. Bernardine refused. + +"I have been from England nearly five months," she said, "and my money +is coming to an end. I must go back and work." + +"Then come away with me as my companion," Mrs. Reffold suggested. "And +I will pay you a handsome salary." + +Bernardine could not be persuaded. + +"No," she said. "I could not earn money that way: it would not suit me. +And besides, you would not care to be a long time with me: you would +soon tire of me. You think you would like to have me with you now. But +I know how it would be: You would be sorry, and so should I. So let us +part as we are now: you going your way, and I going mine. We live in +different worlds, Mrs. Reffold. It would be as senseless for me to +venture into yours, as for you to come into mine. Do you think I am +unkind?" + +So they parted. Mrs. Reffold had spoken no word of affection to +Bernardine, but at the station, as she bent down to kiss her, she +whispered: + +"I know you will not think too hardly of me. Still, will you promise +me? And if you are ever in trouble, and I can help you, will you write +to me?" + +And Bernardine promised. + +When she got back to her room, she found a small packet on her table. +It contained Mr. Reffold's watch-chain. She had so often seen him +playing with it. There was a little piece of paper enclosed with it, +and Mr. Reffold had written on it some two months ago: "Give my watch- +chain to Little Brick, if she will sacrifice a little of her pride, and +accept the gift." Bernardine unfastened her watch from the black hair +cord, and attached it instead to Mr. Reffold's massive gold chain. + +As she sat there fiddling with it, the idea seized her that she would +be all the better for a day's outing. At first she thought she would go +alone, and then she decided to ask Robert Allitsen. She learnt from +Marie that he was in the dark room, and she hastened down. She knocked +several times before there was any answer. + +"I can't be disturbed just now," he said. "Who is it?" + +"I can't shout to you," she said. + +The Disagreeable Man opened the door of the dark room. + +"My negatives will be spoilt," he said gruffly. Then seeing Bernardine +standing there, he added: + +"Why, you look as though you wanted some brandy." + +"No," she said, smiling at his sudden change of manner. "I want fresh +air, a sledge drive, and a day's outing. Will you come?" + +He made no answer, and retired once more into the dark room. Then he +came out with his camera. + +"We will go to that inn again," he said cheerily. "I want to take the +photographs to those peasants." + +In half an hours time they were on their way. It was the same drive as +before: and since then, Bernardine had seen more of the country, and was +more accustomed to the wonderful white scenery: but still the "white +presences" awed her, and still the deep silence held her. It was the +same scene, and yet not the same either, for the season was now far +advanced, and the melting of the snows had begun. In the far distance +the whiteness seemed as before; but on the slopes near at hand, the +green was beginning to assert itself, and some of the great trees had +cast off their heavy burdens, and appeared more gloomy in their freedom +than in the days of their snow-bondage. The roads were no longer quite +so even as before; the sledge glided along when it could, and bumped +along when it must. Still, there was sufficient snow left to make the +drive possible, and even pleasant. + +The two companions were quiet. Once only the Disagreeable Man made a +remark, and then he said: + +"I am afraid my negatives will be spoilt!" + +"You said that before," Bernardine remarked. + +"Well, I say it again," he answered in his grim way. + +Then came a long pause. + +"The best part of the winter is over," he said. "We may have some more +snow; but it is more probable that we shall not. It is not enjoyable +being here during the melting time." + +"Well, in any case I should not be here much longer," she said; "and +for a simple reason, too. I have nearly come to the end of my money. +I shall have to go back and set to work again. I should not have been +able to give myself this chance, but that my uncle spared me some of +his money, to which I added my savings." + +"Are you badly off?" the Disagreeable Man asked rather timidly. + +"I have very few wants," she answered brightly. "And wealth is only a +relative word, after all." + +"It is a pity that you should go back to work so soon," he said half to +himself. "You are only just better; and it is easy to lose what one has +gained." + +"Oh, I am not likely to lose," she answered; "but I shall be careful +this time. I shall do a little teaching, and perhaps a little writing: +not much--you need not be vexed. I shall not try to pick up the other +threads yet. I shall not be political, nor educational, nor anything +else great." + +"If you call politics or education great," he said. "And heaven defend +me from political or highly educated women!" + +"You say that because you know nothing about them," she said sharply. + +"Thank you," he replied. "I have met them quite often enough!" + +"That was probably some time ago," she said rather heartlessly. "If you +have lived here so long, how can you judge of the changes which go on +in the world outside Petershof?" + +"If I have lived here so long," he repeated, in the bitterness of his +heart. + +Bernardine did not notice: she was on a subject which always excited her. + +"I don't know so much about the political women," she said, "but I do +know about the higher education people. The writers who rail against +the women of this date are really describing the women of ten years ago. +Why, the Girton girl of ten years ago seems a different creation from +the Girton girl of to-day. Yet the latter has been the steady outgrowth +of the former!" + +"And the difference between them?" asked the Disagreeable Man; "since +you pride yourself on being so well informed." + +"The Girton girl of ten years ago," said Bernardine, "was a, sombre, +spectacled person, carelessly and dowdily dressed, who gave herself up +to wisdom, and despised every one who did not know the Agamemnon by +heart. She was probably not lovable; but she deserves to be honoured +and thankfully remembered. She fought for woman's right to be well +educated, and I cannot bear to hear her slighted. The fresh-hearted +young girl who nowadays plays a good game of tennis, and takes a high +place in the Classical or Mathematical Tripos, and is book learned, +without being bookish, and . . . ." + +"What other virtues are left, I wonder?" he interrupted. + +"And who does not scorn to take a pride in her looks because she happens +to take a pride in her books," continued Bernardine, looking at the +Disagreeable Man, and not seeming to see him: "she is what she is by +reason of that grave and loveless woman who won the battle for her." + +Here she paused. + +"But how ridiculous for me to talk to you in this way!" she said. "It +is not likely that you would be interested in the widening out of +women's lives." + +"And pray why not?" he asked. "Have I been on the shelf too long?" + +"I think you would not have been interested even if you had never been +on the shelf," she said frankly. "You are not the type of man to be +generous to woman." + +"May I ask one little question of you, which shall conclude this +subject," he said, "since here we are already at the Gasthaus: to which +type of learned woman do you lay claim to belong?" + +Bernardine laughed. + +"That I leave to your own powers of discrimination," she said, and then +added, "if you have any." + +And that was the end of the matter, for the word spread about that Herr +Allitsen had arrived, and every one turned out to give the two guests +greeting. Frau Steinhart smothered Bernardine with motherly tenderness, +and whispered in her ear: + +"You are betrothed now, liebes Fraeulein? Ach, I am sure of it." + +But Bernardine smiled and shook her head, and went to greet the others +who crowded round them; and at last poor Catharina drew near too, +holding Bernardine's hand lovingly within her own. Then Hans, Liza's +lover, came upon the scene, and Liza told the Disagreeable Man that she +and Hans were to be married in a month's time. And the Disagreeable Man, +much to Bernardine's amazement, drew from his pocket a small parcel, +which he confided to Liza's care. Every one pressed round her while she +opened it, and found what she had so often wished for, a silver watch +and chain. + +"Ach," she cried, "how heavenly! How all the girls here will envy me! +How angry my dear friend Susanna will be!" + +Then there were the photographs to be examined. + +Liza looked with stubborn disapproval on the pictures of herself in her +working-dress. But she did not conceal her admiration of the portraits +which showed her to the world in her best finery. + +"Ach," she cried, "this is something like a photograph!" + +The Disagreeable Man grunted, but behaved after the fashion of a hero, +claiming, however, a little silent sympathy from Bernardine. + +It was a pleasant, homely scene: and Bernardine, who, felt quite at her +ease amongst these people, chatted away with them as though she had +known them all her life. + +Then Frau Steinhart suddenly remembered that her guests needed some food, +and Liza was despatched to her duties as cook; though it was some time +before she could be induced to leave off looking at the photographs. + +"Take them with you, Liza," said the Disagreeable Man. "Then we shall +get our meal all the quicker!" + +She ran off laughing, and finally Bernardine found herself alone with +Catharina. + +"Liza is very happy," she said to Bernardine. "She loves, and is loved." + +"That is the greatest happiness," Bernardine said half to herself. + +"Fraeulein knows?" Catharina asked eagerly. + +Bernardine looked wistfully at her companion. "No, Catharina," she said. +"I have only heard and read and seen." + +"Then _you_ cannot understand," Catharina said almost proudly. "But _I_ +understand!" + +She spoke no more after that, but took up her knitting, and watched +Bernardine playing with the kittens. She was playing with the kittens, +and she was thinking; and all the time she felt conscious that this +peasant woman, stricken in mind and body, was pitying her because that +great happiness of loving and being loved had not come into her life. +It had seemed something apart from her; she had never even wanted it. +She had wished to stand alone, like a little rock out at sea. + +And now? + +In a few minutes the Disagreeable Man and she sat down to their meal. +In spite of her excitement, Liza managed to prepare everything nicely; +though when she was making the omelette _aux fines herbes_, she had to +be kept guarded lest she might run off to have another look at the +silver watch and the photographs of herself in her finest frock! + +Then Bernardine and Robert Allitsen drank to the health of Hans and +Liza: and then came the time of reckoning. When he was paying the bill, +Frau Steinhart, having given him the change, said coaxingly: + +"Last time, you and Fraeulein each paid a share: to-day you pay all. Then +perhaps you are betrothed at last, dear Herr Allitsen? Ach, how the old +Hausfrau wishes you happiness! Who deserves to be happy, if it is not +our dear Herr Allitsen?" + +"You have given me twenty centimes too much," he said quietly. "You +have your head so full of other things that you cannot reckon properly." + +But seeing that she looked troubled lest she might have offended him, +he added quickly: + +"When I am betrothed, good little old housemother, you shall be the +first to know." + +And she had to be content with that. She asked no more questions of +either of them: but she was terribly disappointed. There was something +a little comical in her disappointment; but Robert Allitsen was not +amused at it, as he had been on a former occasion. As he leaned back +in the sledge, with the same girl for his companion, he recalled his +feelings. He had been astonished and amused, and perhaps a little shy, +and a great deal relieved that she had been sensible enough to be +amused too. + +And now? + +They had been constantly together for many months: he who had never +cared before for companionship, had found himself turning more and more +to her. + +_And now he was going to lose her_. + +He looked up once or twice to make sure that she was still by his side: +she sat there so quietly. At last he spoke in his usual gruff way. + +"Have you exhausted all your eloquence in your oration about learned +women?" he asked. + +"No, I am reserving it for a better audience," she answered, trying to +be bright. But she was not bright. + +"I believe you came out to the country to day to seek for cheerfulness," +he said after a pause. "Have you found it?" + +"I do not know," she said. "It takes me some time to recover from +shocks; and Mr. Reffold's death was a sorrow to me. What do you think +about death? Have you any theories about life and death, and the bridge +between them? Could you say anything to help one?" + +"Nothing," he answered. "Who could? And by what means?" + +"Has there been no value in philosophy," she asked, "and the meditations +of learned men?" + +"Philosophy!" he sneered. "What has it done for us? It has taught us +some processes of the mind's working; taught us a few wonderful things +which interest the few; but the centuries have come and gone, and the +only thing which the whole human race pants to know, remains unknown: +our beloved ones, shall we meet them, and how?--the great secret of the +universe. We ask for bread, and these philosophers give us a stone. +What help could come from them: or from any one? Death is simply one of +the hard facts of life." + +"And the greatest evil," she said. + +"We weave our romances about the next world," he continued; "and any +one who has a fresh romance to relate, or an old one dressed up in new +language, will be listened to, and welcomed. That helps some people for +a little while; and when the charm of the romance is over, then they +are ready for another, perhaps more fantastic than the last. But the +plot is always the same: our beloved ones--shall we meet them, and how? +Isn't it pitiful? Why cannot we be more impersonal? These puny, petty +minds of ours! When will they learn to expand?" + +"Why should we learn to be more impersonal?" she said. "There was a time +when I felt like that; but now I have learnt something better: that we +need not be ashamed of being human; above all, of having the best of +human instincts, love, and the passionate wish for its continuance, and +the unceasing grief at its withdrawal. There is no indignity in this; +nor any trace of weakmindedness in our restless craving to know about +the Hereafter, and the possibilities of meeting again those whom we have +lost here. It is right, and natural, and lovely that it should be the +most important question. I know that many will say that there _are_ +weightier questions: they say so, but do they think so? Do we want to +know first and foremost whether we shall do our work better elsewhere: +whether we shall be endowed with more wisdom: whether, as poor +Mr. Reffold said, we shall be glad to behave less like curs, and more +like heroes? These questions come in, but they can be put aside. The +other question can _never_ be put on one side. If that were to become +possible, it would only be so because the human heart had lost the best +part of itself, its own humanity. We shall go on building our bridge +between life and death, each one for himself. When we see that it is +not strong enough, we shall break it down and build another. We shall +watch other people building their bridges. We shall imitate, or +criticise, or condemn. But as time goes on, we shall learn not to +interfere, we shall know that one bridge is probably as good as the +other; and that the greatest value of them all has been in the building +of them. It does not matter what we build, but build we must: you, and I, +and every one." + +"I have long ceased to build my bridge," the Disagreeable Man said. + +"It is an almost unconscious process," she said. "Perhaps you are still +at work, or perhaps you are resting." + +He shrugged his shoulders, and the two comrades fell into silence again. + +They were within two miles of Petershof, when he broke the silence: +there was something wonderfully gentle in his voice. + +"You little thing," he said, "we are nearing home, and I have something +to ask you. It is easier for me to ask here in the free open country, +where the space seems to give us breathing room for our cramped lungs +and minds!" + +"Well," she said kindly; she wondered what he could have to say. + +"I am a little nervous of offending you," he continued, "and yet I trust +you. It is only this. You said you had come to the end of your money, +and that you must go home. It seems a pity when you are getting better. +I have so much more than I need. I don't offer it to you as a gift, but +I thought if you wished to stay longer, a loan from me would not be +quite impossible to you. You could repay as quickly or as slowly as was +convenient to you, and I should only be grateful and" . . . . + +He stopped suddenly. + +The tears had gathered in Bernardine's eyes her hand rested for one +moment on his arm. + +"Mr. Allitsen," she said, "you did well to trust me. But I could not +borrow money of any one, unless I was obliged. If I could of any one, +it would have been of you. It is not a month ago since I was a little +anxious about money; my remittances did not come. I thought then that +if obliged to ask for temporary help, I should come to you: so you see +if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you." + +A smile passed over the Disagreeable Man's face, one of his rare, +beautiful smiles. + +"Supposing you change your mind," he said quietly, "you will not find +that I have changed mine." + +Then a few minutes brought them back to Petershof. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +A BETROTHAL. + + +HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his +answer. It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know +exactly where he stood in her affections. She had certainly given him +little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not +indifferent to his admiration. Little signs were all very well for a +short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end: she had told +him that she was going back to her work at home. And then perhaps he +would lose her altogether. It would not be safe now for him to delay a +single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with courage. + +Waerli's brain was muddled that day. He who prided himself upon knowing +the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes +about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his +stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger +person than the little hunchback postman. + +In fact, he ceased to care how he gave out the letters: all the +envelopes seemed to have the same name on them: _Marie Truog_. Every +word which he tried to decipher turned to that; so finally he tried no +more, leaving the destination of the letter to be decided by the +impulse of the moment. At last he arrived at that quarter of the +Kurhaus where Marie held sway. He heard her singing in her pantry. +Suddenly she was summoned downstairs by an impatient bellringer, +and on her return found Waerli waiting in the passage. + +"What a goose you are!" she cried, throwing a letter at him; "you have +left the wrong letter at No. 82." + +Then some one else rang, and Marie hurried off again. She came back with +another letter in her hand, and found Waerli sitting in her pantry. + +"The wrong letter left at No. 54," she said, "and Madame in a horrid +temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Waerli! Can't you +read? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I'll sort them." + +Waerli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead. + +"I can't read to-day, Marie," he said; something has gone wrong with me. +Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every +one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you, +though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write +at the same time, to catch the same post." + +"It would be very dull if they did," said Marie, who was polishing some +water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary. + +"But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen," the little postman said. +"I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to +look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the +book itself is not a bad book." + +Marie went on polishing the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the +light to admire their unwonted cleanness. + +"I don't plead for myself," continued Waerli. "If you don't love me, that +is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will +marry me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all." + +Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Waerli. + +"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why +didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now." + +"Oh, Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering +it with kisses; "you love some one else--you are already betrothed? And +now it's too late, and you love some one else!" + +"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was +too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet +ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the +can; no, not one little drop! + +"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Waerli, snatching the can out of her +hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know +about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like +this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all +Switzerland." + +"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice; +"the truth and nothing else? Well, Waerli, if you must know . . . how I +grieve to hurt you . . . ." Waerli's heart sank, the tears came into his +eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the +torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!" + +A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract +any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp. +He discovered Waerli embracing his betrothed. + +"I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But +directly afterwards he came back. + +"The matron has just come upstairs," he said. And he hurried away. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +"SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING." + + +MANY of the guests in the foreign quarter had made a start downwards +into the plains; and the Kurhaus itself, though still well filled with +visitors, was every week losing some of its invalids. A few of the +tables looked desolate, and some were not occupied at all, the lingerers +having chosen, now that their party was broken up, to seek the refuge of +another table. So that many stragglers found their way to the English +dining-board, each bringing with him his own national bad manners, and +causing much annoyance to the Disagreeable Man, who was a true John Bull +in his contempt of all foreigners. The English table was, so he said, +like England herself: the haven of other nation's offscourings. + +There were several other signs, too, that the season was far advanced. +The food had fallen off in quality and quantity. The invalids, some of +them better and some of them worse, had become impatient. And plans were +being discussed, where formerly temperatures and coughs and general +symptoms were the usual subjects of conversation! The caretakers, too, +were in a state of agitation; some few keenly anxious to be of to new +pastures; and others, who had perhaps formed attachments, an occurrence +not unusual in Petershof, were wishing to hold back time with both +hands, and were therefore delighted that the weather, which had not +yet broken up, gave no legitimate excuse for immediate departure. + +Pretty Fraeulein Mueller had gone, leaving her Spanish gentleman quite +disconsolate for the time being. The French Marchioness had returned to +the Parisian circles where she was celebrated for all the domestic +virtues, from which she had been taking such a prolonged holiday in +Petershof. The little French danseuse and her poodle had left for Monte +Carlo. M. Lichinsky and his mother passed on to the Tyrol, where Madame +would no doubt have plenty of opportunities for quarrelling: or not +finding them, would certainly make them without any delay, by this means +keeping herself in good spirits and her son in bad health. There were +some, too, who had hurried off without paying their doctors: being of +course those who had received the greatest attention, and who had +expressed the greatest gratitude in their time of trouble, but who were +of opinion that thankfulness could very well take the place of francs: +an opinion not entirely shared by the doctors themselves. + +The Swedish professor had betaken himself off, with his chessmen and his +chessboard. The little Polish governess who clutched so eagerly at her +paltry winnings, caressing those centimes with the same fondness and +fever that a greater gambler grasps his thousands of francs, she, had +left too; and, indeed, most of Bernardine's acquaintances had gone their +several ways, after six months' constant intercourse, and companionship, +saying good-bye with the same indifference as though they were saying +good-morning or good-afternoon. + +This cold-heartedness struck Bernardine more than once, and she spoke +of it to Robert Allitsen. It was the day before her own departure, and +she had gone down with him to the restaurant, and sat sipping her +coffee, and making her complaint. + +"Such indifference is astonishing, and it is sad too. I cannot +understand it," she said. + +"That is because you are a goose," he replied, pouring out some more +coffee for himself, and as an after thought, for her too. "You pretend +to know something about the human heart, and yet you do not seem to +grasp the fact that most of us are very little interested in other +people: they for us and we for them can spare only a small fraction of +time and attention. We may, perhaps, think to the contrary, believing +that we occupy an important position in their lives; until one day, +when we are feeling most confident of our value, we see an unmistakable +sign, given quite unconsciously by our friends, that we are after all +nothing to them: we can be done without, put on one side, and forgotten +when not present. Then, if we are foolish, we are wounded by this +discovery, and we draw back into ourselves. But if we are wise, we draw +back into ourselves without being wounded: recognizing as fair and +reasonable that people can only have time and attention for their +immediate belongings. Isolated persons have to learn this lesson sooner +or later; and the sooner they do learn it, the better." + +"And you," she asked, "you have learnt this lesson?" + +"Long ago," he said decidedly. + +"You take a hard view of life," she said. + +"Life has not been very bright for me," he answered. "But I own that I +have not cultivated my garden. And now it is too late: the weeds have +sprung up everywhere. Once or twice I have thought lately that I would +begin to clear away the weeds, but I have not the courage now. And +perhaps it does not matter much." + +"I think it does matter," she said gently. "But I am no better than you, +for I have not cultivated my garden." + +"It would not be such a difficult business for you as for me," he said, +smiling sadly. + +They left the restaurant, and sauntered out together. + +"And to-morrow you will be gone," he said. + +"I shall miss you," Bernardine said. + +"That is simply a question of time," he remarked. "I shall probably miss +you at first. But we adjust ourselves easily to altered circumstances: +mercifully. A few days, a few weeks at most, and then that state of +becoming accustomed, called by pious folk, resignation." + +"Then you think that the every-day companionship, the every-day exchange +of thoughts and ideas, counts for little or nothing?" she asked. + +"That is about the colour of it," he answered, in his old gruff way. + +She thought of his words when she was packing: the many pleasant hours +were to count for nothing; for nothing the little bits of fun, the +little displays of temper and vexation, the snatches of serious talk, +the contradictions, and all the petty details of six months' close +companionship. + +He was not different from the others who had parted from her so lightly. +No wonder, then, that he could sympathise with them. + +That last night at Petershof, Bernardine hardened her heart against the +Disagreeable Man. + +"I am glad I am able to do so," she said to herself. "It makes it +easier for me to go." + +Then the vision of a forlorn figure rose before her. And the little +hard heart softened at once. + +In the morning they breakfasted together as usual. There was scarcely +any conversation between them. He asked for her address, and she told +him that she was going back to her uncle who kept the second-hand book- +shop in Stone Street. + +"I will send you a guide-book from the Tyrol," he explained. "I shall +be going there in a week or two to see my mother." + +"I hope you will find her in good health," she said. + +Then it suddenly flashed across her mind what he had told her about his +one great sacrifice for his mother's sake. She looked up at him, and he +met her glance without flinching. + +He said good-bye to her at the foot of the staircase. + +It was the first time she had ever shaken hands with him. + +"Good-bye," he said gently. "Good luck to you." + +"Good-bye," she answered. + +He went up the stairs, and turned round as though he wished to say +something more. But he changed his mind, and kept his own counsel. + +An hour later Bernardine left Petershof. Only the concierge of the +Kurhaus saw her off at the station. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A LOVE-LETTER. + + +TWO days after Bernardine had left Petershof, the snows began to melt. +Nothing could be drearier than that process: nothing more desolate than +the outlook. + +The Disagreeable Man sat in his bedroom trying to read Carpenter's +Anatomy. It failed to hold him. Then he looked out of the window, and +listened to the dripping of the icicles. At last he took a pen, and +wrote as follows: + +"LITTLE COMRADE, LITTLE PLAYMATE." + +"I could not believe that you were really going. When you first said +that you would soon be leaving, I listened with unconcern, because it +did not seem possible that the time could come when we should not be +together; that the days would come and go, and that I should not know +how you were; whether you were better, and more hopeful about your life +and your work, or whether the old misery of indifference and ill-health +was still clinging to you; whether your voice was strong as of one who +had slept well and felt refreshed, or whether it was weak like that of +one who had watched through the long night. + +"It did not seem possible that such a time could come. Many cruel things +have happened to me, as to scores of others, but this is the most cruel +of all. Against my wish and against my knowledge, you have crept into my +life as a necessity, and now I have to give you up. You are better, God +bless you, and you go back to a fuller life, and to carry on your work, +and to put to account those talents which no one realises more than I do; +and as for myself, God help me, I am left to wither away. + +"You little one, you dear little one, I never wished to love you. I had +never loved any one, never drawn near to any one. I have lived lonely +all my young life; for I am only a young man yet. I said to myself time +after time: 'I will not love her. It will not do me any good, nor her +any good.' And then in my state of health, what right had I to think of +marriage, and making a home for myself? Of course that was out of the +question. And then I thought, that because I was a doomed man, cut off +from the pleasures which make a lovely thing of life, it did not follow +that I might not love you in my own quiet way, hugging my secret to +myself, until the love became all the greater because it was my secret. +I reasoned about it too: it could not harm you that I loved you. No one +could be the worse for being loved. So little by little I yielded myself +this luxury; and my heart once so dried up, began to flower again; yes, +little one, you will smile when I tell you that my heart broke out into +flower. + +"When I think of it all now, I am not sorry that I let myself go. At +least I have learnt what I knew nothing of before: now I understand what +people mean when they say that love adds a dignity to life which nothing +else can give. That dignity is mine now, nothing can take it from me; +it is my own. You are my very own; I love everything about you. From the +beginning I recognized that you were clever and capable. Though I often +made fun of what you said, that was simply a way I had; and when I saw +you did not mind, I continued in that way, hoping always to vex you; +your good temper provoked me, because I knew that you made allowances +for me being a Petershof invalid. You would never have suffered a strong +man to criticize you as I did; you would have flown at him, for you are +a feverish little child: not a quiet woolly lamb. At first I was wild +that you should make allowances for me. And then I gave in, as weak men +are obliged. When you came, I saw that your troubles and sufferings +would make you bitter. Do you know who helped to cure you? _It was I_. +I have seen that often before. That is the one little bit of good I have +done in the world: I have helped to cure cynicism. You were shocked at +the things I said, and you were saved. I did not save you intentionally, +so I am not posing as a philanthropist. I merely mention that you came +here hard, and you went back tender. That was partly because you have +lived in the City of Suffering. Some people live there and learn +nothing. But you would learn to feel only too much. I wish that your +capacity for feeling were less; but then you would not be yourself, +your present self I mean, for you have changed even since I have known +you. Every week you seemed to become more gentle. You thought me rough +and gruff at parting, little comrade: I meant to be so. If you had only +known, there was a whole world of tenderness for you in my heart. I +could not trust myself to be tender to you; you would have guessed my +secret. And I wanted you to go away undisturbed. You do not feel things +lightly, and it was best for you that you should harden your heart +against me. + +"If you could harden your heart against me. But I am not sure about +that. I believe that . . . . Ah, well, I'm a foolish fellow; but some day, +dear, I'll tell you what I think . . . . I have treasured many of your +sayings in my memory. I can never be as though I had never known you. +Many of your words I have repeated to myself afterwards until they +seemed to represent my own thoughts. I specially remember what you +said about God having made us lonely, so that we might be obliged to +turn to him. For we are all lonely, though some of us not quite so much +as others. You yourself spoke often of being lonely. Oh, my own little +one! Your loneliness is nothing compared to mine. How often I could +have told you that. + +"I have never seen any of your work, but I think you have now something +to say to others, and that you will say it well. And if you have the +courage to be simple when it comes to the point, you will succeed. And +I believe you will have the courage, I believe everything of you. + +"But whatever you do or do not, you will always be the same to me: my +own little one, my very own. I have been waiting all my life for you; +and I have given you my heart entire. If you only knew that, you could +not call yourself lonely any more. If any one was ever loved, it is you, +dear heart. + +"Do you remember how those peasants at the Gasthaus thought we were +betrothed? I thought that might annoy you; and though I was relieved at +the time, still, later on, I wished you had been annoyed. That would +have shown that you were not indifferent. From that time my love for +you grew apace. You must not mind me telling you so often; I must go on +telling you. Just think, dear, this is the first love-letter I have ever +written: and every word of love is a whole world of love. I shall never +call my life a failure now. I may have failed in everything else, but +not in loving. Oh, little one, it can't be that I am not to be with you, +and not to have you for my own! And yet how can that be? It is not I who +may hold you in my arms. Some strong man must love and wrap you round +with tenderness and softness. You little independent child, in spite of +all your wonderful views and theories, you will soon be glad to lean on +some one for comfort and sympathy. And then perhaps that troubled little +spirit of yours may find its rest. Would to God I were that strong man! + +"But because I love you, my own little darling, I will not spoil your +life. I won't ask you to give me even one thought. But if I believed +that it were of any good to say a prayer, I should pray that you may +soon find that strong man; for it is not well for any of us to stand +alone. There comes a time when the loneliness is more than we can bear. + +"There is one thing I want you to know: indeed I am not the gruff fellow +I have so often seemed. Do believe that. Do you remember how I told you +that I dreamed of losing you? And now the dream has come true. I am +always looking for you, and cannot find you. + +"You have been very good to me; so patient, and genial, and frank. No +one before has ever been so good. Even if I did not love you, I should +say that. + +"But I do love you, no one can take that from me: it is my own dignity, +the crown of my life. Such a poor life . . . no, no, I won't say that +now. I cannot pity myself now . . . no, I cannot . . . ." + +The Disagreeable Man stopped writing, and the pen dropped on the table. + +He buried his tear-stained face in his hands. He cried his heart out, +this Disagreeable Man. + +Then he took the letter which he had just been writing, and he tore it +into fragments. + +END OF PART I. + + + + +PART II. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. + + +IT was now more than three weeks since Bernardine's return to London. +She had gone back to her old home, at her uncle's second-hand book-shop. +She spent her time in dusting the books, and arranging them in some +kind of order; for old Zerviah Holme had ceased to interest himself +much in his belongings, and sat in the little inner room reading as +usual Gibbon's "History of Rome." Customers might please themselves +about coming: Zerviah Holme had never cared about amassing money, and +now he cared even less than before. A frugal breakfast, a frugal dinner, +a box full of snuff, and a shelf full of Gibbon were the old man's only +requirements: an undemanding life, and therefore a loveless one; since +the less we ask for, the less we get. + +When Malvina his wife died, people said: "He will miss her." + +But he did not seem to miss her: he took his breakfast, his pinch of +snuff, his Gibbon, in precisely the same way as before, and in the same +quantities. + +When Bernardine first fell ill, people said: "He will be sorry. He is +fond of her in his own queer way." + +But he did not seem to be sorry. He did not understand anything about +illness. The thought of it worried him; so he put it from him. He +remembered vaguely that Bernardine's father had suddenly become ill, +that his powers had all failed him, and that he lingered on, just a +wreck of humanity, and then died. That was twenty years ago. Then he +thought of Bernardine, and said to himself, "History repeats itself." +That was all. + +Unkind? No; for when it was told him that she must go away, he looked +at her wonderingly, and then went out. It was very rarely that he went +out. He came back with fifty pounds. + +"When that is done," he told her, "I can find more." + +When she went away, people said: "He will be lonely." + +But he did not seem to be lonely. They asked him once, and he said: +"I always have Gibbon." + +And when she came back, they said: "He will be glad." + +But her return seemed to make no difference to him. + +He looked at her in his usual sightless manner, and asked her what she +intended to do. + +"I shall dust the books," she said. + +"Ah, I dare say they want it," he remarked. + +"I shall get a little teaching to do," she continued. "And I shall take +care of you." + +"Ah," he said vaguely. He did not understand what she meant. She had +never been very near to him, and he had never been very near to her. +He had taken but little notice of her comings and goings; she had either +never tried to win his interest or had failed: probably the latter. Now +she was going to take care of him. + +This was the home to which Bernardine had returned. She came back with +many resolutions to help to make his old age bright. She looked back +now, and saw how little she had given of herself to her aunt and her +uncle. Aunt Malvina was dead, and Bernardine did not regret her. Uncle +Zerviah was here still; she would be tender with him, and win his +affection. She thought she could not begin better than by looking after +his books. Each one was dusted carefully. The dingy old shop was +restored to cleanliness. Bernardine became interested in her task. +"I will work up the business," she thought. She did not care in the +least about the books; she never looked into them except to clean them; +but she was thankful to have the occupation at hand: something to help +her over a difficult time. For the most trying part of an illness is +when we are ill no longer; when there is no excuse for being idle and +listless; when, in fact, we could work if we would: then is the moment +for us to begin on anything which presents itself, until we have the +courage and the inclination to go back to our own particular work: that +which we have longed to do, and about which we now care nothing. + +So Bernardine dusted books and sometimes sold them. All the time she +thought of the Disagreeable Man. She missed him in her life. She had +never loved before, and she loved him. The forlorn figure rose before +her, and her eyes filled with tears. Sometimes the tears fell on the +books, and spotted them. + +Still, on the whole she was bright; but she found things difficult. She +had lost her old enthusiasms, and nothing yet had taken their place. +She went back to the circle of her acquaintances, and found that she +had slipped away from touch with them. Whilst she had been ill, they +had been busily at work on matters social and educational and political. + +She thought them hard, the women especially: they thought her weak. +They were disappointed in her; she was now looking for the more human +qualities in them, and she, too, was disappointed. + +"You have changed," they said to her: "but then of course you have been +ill, haven't you?" + +With these strong, active people, to be ill and useless is a reproach. +And Bernardine felt it as such. But she had changed, and she herself +perceived it in many ways. It was not that she was necessarily better, +but that she was different; probably more human, and probably less self- +confident. She had lived in a world of books, and she had burst through +that bondage and come out into a wider and a freer land. + +New sorts of interests came into her life. What she had lost in +strength, she had gained in tenderness. Her very manner was gentler, +her mode of speech less assertive. At least, this was the criticism of +those who had liked her but little before her illness. + +"She has learnt," they said amongst themselves. And they were not +scholars. They _knew_. + +These, two or three of them, drew her nearer to them. She was alone +there with the old man, and, though better, needed care. They mothered +her as well as they could, at first timidly, and then with that sweet +despotism which is for us all an easy yoke to bear. They were drawn to +her as they had never been drawn before. They felt that she was no +longer analysing them, weighing them in her intellectual balance, and +finding them wanting; so they were free with her now, and revealed to +her qualities at which she had never guessed before. + +As the days went on, Zerviah began to notice that things were somehow +different. He found some flowers near his table. He was reading about +Nero at the time; but he put aside his Gibbon, and fondled the flowers +instead. Bernardine did not know that. + +One morning when she was out, he went into the shop and saw a great +change there. Some one had been busy at work. The old man was pleased: +he loved his books, though of late he had neglected them. + +"She never used to take any interest in them," he said to himself. +"I wonder why she does now?" + +He began to count upon seeing her. When she came back from her outings, +he was glad. But she did not know. If he had given any sign of welcome +to her during those first difficult days, it would have been a great +encouragement to her. + +He watched her feeding the sparrows. One day when she was not there, he +went and did the same. Another day when she had forgotten, he surprised +her by reminding her. + +"You have forgotten to feed the sparrows," he said. "They must be quite +hungry." + +That seemed to break the ice a little. The next morning when she was +arranging some books in the old shop, he came in and watched her. + +"It is a comfort to have you," he said. That was all he said, but +Bernardine flushed with pleasure. + +"I wish I had been more to you all these years," she said gently. + +He did not quite take that in: and returned hastily to Gibbon. + +Then they began to stroll out together. They had nothing to talk about: +he was not interested in the outside world, and she was not interested +in Roman History. But they were trying to get nearer to each other: they +had lived years together, but they had never advanced a step; now they +were trying, she consciously, he unconsciously. But it was a slow +process, and pathetic, as everything human is. + +"If we could only find some subject which we both liked," Bernardine +thought to herself. "That might knit us together." + +Well, they found a subject; though, perhaps, it was an unlikely one. +The cart-horses: those great, strong, patient toilers of the road +attracted their attention, and after that no walk was without its +pleasure or interest. The brewers' horses were the favourites, though +there were others, too, which met with their approval. He began to know +and recognize them. He was almost like a child in his newfound interest. +On Whit Monday they both went to the cart-horse parade in Regent's Park. +They talked about the enjoyment for days afterwards. + +"Next year," he told her, "we must subscribe to the fund, even if we +have to sell a book." + +He did not like to sell his books: he parted with them painfully, as +some people part with their illusions. + +Bernardine bought a paper for herself every day; but one evening she +came in without one. She had been seeing after some teaching, and had +without any difficulty succeeded in getting some temporary light work +at one of the high schools. She forgot to buy her newspaper. + +The old man noticed this. He put on his shabby felt hat, and went down +the street, and brought in a copy of the _Daily News_. + +"I don't remember what you like, but will this do?" he asked. + +He was quite proud of himself for showing her this attention, almost as +proud as the Disagreeable Man, when he did something kind and thoughtful. + +Bernardine thought of him, and the tears came into her eyes at once. +When did she not think of him? Then she glanced at the front sheet, and +in the death column her eye rested on his name: and she read that Robert +Allitsen's mother had passed away. So the Disagreeable Man had won his +freedom at last. His words echoed back to her: + +"But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt anything else, I have +learnt how to wait. And some day I shall be free. And then . . . ." + + + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK. + + +AFTER the announcement of Mrs. Allitsen's death, Bernardine lived in a +misery of suspense. Every day she scanned the obituary, fearing to find +the record of another death, fearing and yet wishing to know. The +Disagreeable Man had yearned for his freedom these many years, and now +he was at liberty to do what he chose with his poor life. It was of no +value to him. Many a time she sat and shuddered. Many a time she began +to write to him. Then she remembered that after all he had cared nothing +for her companionship. He would not wish to hear from her. And besides, +what had she to say to him? + +A feeling of desolation came over her. It was not enough for her to take +care of the old man who was drawing nearer to her every day; nor was it +enough for her to dust the books, and serve any chance customers who +might look in. In the midst of her trouble she remembered some of her +old ambitions; and she turned to them for comfort as we turn to old +friends. + +"I will try to begin my book," she said to herself. "If I can only get +interested in it, I shall forget my anxiety!" + +But the love of her work had left her. Bernardine fretted. She sat in +the old bookshop, her pen unused, her paper uncovered. She was very +miserable. + +Then one evening when she was feeling that it was of no use trying to +force herself to begin her book, she took her pen suddenly, and wrote +the following prologue. + + + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE. + + +FAILURE and Success passed away from Earth, and found themselves in a +Foreign Land. Success still wore her laurel-wreath which she had won on +Earth. There was a look of ease about her whole appearance; and there +was a smile of pleasure and satisfaction on her face, as though she knew +she had done well and had deserved her honours. + +Failure's head was bowed: no laurel-wreath encircled it. Her face was +wan, and pain-engraven. She had once been beautiful and hopeful, but +she had long since lost both hope and beauty. They stood together, +these two, waiting for an audience with the Sovereign of the Foreign +Land. An old grey-haired man came to them and asked their names. + +"I am Success," said Success, advancing a step forward, and smiling at +him, and pointing to her laurel-wreath. + +He shook his head. + +"Ah," he said, "do not be too confident. Very often things go by +opposites in this land. What you call Success, we often call Failure; +what you call Failure, we call Success. Do you see those two men waiting +there? The one nearer to us was thought to be a good man in your world; +the other was generally accounted bad. But here we call the bad man +good, and the good man bad. That seems strange to you. Well then, look +yonder. You considered that statesman to be sincere; but we say he was +insincere. We chose as our poet-laureate a man at whom your world +scoffed. Ay, and those flowers yonder: for us they have a fragrant +charm; we love to see them near us. But you do not even take the trouble +to pluck them from the hedges where they grow in rich profusion. So, you +see, what we value as a treasure, you do not value at all." + +Then he turned to Failure. + +"And your name?" he asked kindly, though indeed he must have known it. + +"I am Failure," she said sadly. + +He took her by the hand. + +"Come, now, Success," he said to her: "let me lead you into the +Presence-Chamber." + +Then she who had been called Failure, and was now called Success, +lifted up her bowed head, and raised her weary frame, and smiled at +the music of her new name. And with that smile she regained her beauty +and her hope. And hope having come back to her, all her strength +returned. + +"But what of her," she asked regretfully of the old grey-haired man; +"must she be left?" + +"She will learn," the old man whispered. "She is learning already. +Come, now: we must not linger." + +So she of the new name passed into the Presence-Chamber. + +But the Sovereign said: + +"The world needs you, dear and honoured worker. You know your real +name: do not heed what the world may call you. Go back and work, but +take with you this time unconquerable hope." + +So she went back and worked, taking with her unconquerable hope, and +the sweet remembrance of the Sovereign's words, and the gracious music +of her Real Name. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM. + + +THE morning after Bernardine began her book, she and old Zerviah were +sitting together in the shop. He had come from the little inner room +where he had been reading Gibbon for the last two hours. He still held +the volume in his hand; but he did not continue reading, he watched her +arranging the pages of a dilapidated book. + +Suddenly she looked up from her work. + +"Uncle Zerviah," she said brusquely, "you have lived through a long +life, and must have passed through many different experiences. Was +there ever a time when you cared for people rather than books?" + +"Yes," he answered a little uneasily. He was not accustomed to have +questions asked of him. + +"Tell me about it," she said. + +"It was long ago," he said half dreamily, "long before I married +Malvina. And she died. That was all." + +"That was all," repeated Bernardine, looking at him wonderingly. +Then she drew nearer to him. + +"And you have loved, Uncle Zerviah? And you were loved?" + +"Yes, indeed," he answered, softly. + +"Then you would not laugh at me if I were to unburden my heart to you?" + +For answer, she felt the touch of his old hand on her head. And thus +encouraged, she told him the story of the Disagreeable Man. She told him +how she had never before loved any one until she loved the Disagreeable +Man. + +It was all very quietly told, in a simple and dignified manner: +nevertheless, for all that, it was an unburdening of her heart; her +listener being an old scholar who had almost forgotten the very name of +love. + +She was still talking, and he was still listening, when the shop door +creaked. Zerviah crept quietly away, and Bernardine looked up. + +The Disagreeable Man stood at the counter. + +"You little thing," he said, "I have come to see you. It is eight years +since I was in England." + +Bernardine leaned over the counter. + +"And you ought not to be here now," she said, looking at his thin face. +He seemed to have shrunk away since she had last seen him. + +"I am free to do what I choose," he said. "My mother is dead." + +"I know," Bernardine said gently. "But you are not free." + +He made no answer to that, but slipped into the chair. + +"You look tired," he said. "What have you been doing?" + +"I have been dusting the books," she answered, smiling at him. "You +remember you told me I should be content to do that. The very oldest +and shabbiest have had my tenderest care. I found the shop in disorder. +You see it now." + +"I should not call it particularly tidy now," he said grimly. "Still, +I suppose you have done your best. Well, and what else?" + +"I have been trying to take care of my old uncle," she said. "We are +just beginning to understand each other a little. And he is beginning +to feel glad to have me. When I first discovered that, the days became +easier to me. It makes us into dignified persons when we find out that +there is a place for us to fill." + +"Some people never find it out," he said. + +"Probably, like myself, they went on for a long time, without caring," +she answered. "I think I have had more luck than I deserve." + +"Well," said the Disagreeable Man. "And you are glad to take up your +life again?" + +"No," she said quietly. "I have not got as far as that yet. But I +believe that after some little time I may be glad. I hope so, I am +working for that. Sometimes I begin to have a keen interest in +everything. I wake up with an enthusiasm. After about two hours I have +lost it again." + +"Poor little child," he said tenderly. "I, too know what that is. But +you _will_ get back to gladness: not the same kind of satisfaction as +before; but some other satisfaction, that compensation which is said +to be included in the scheme." + +"And I have begun my book," she said, pointing to a few sheets lying on +the counter: that is to say, I have written the Prologue." + +"Then the dusting of the books has not sufficed?" he said, scanning her +curiously. + +"I wanted not to think of myself," Bernardine, said. "Now that I have +begun it, I shall enjoy going on with it. I hope it will be a companion +to me." + +"I wonder whether you will make a failure or a success of it?" he +remarked. "I wish I could have seen." + +"So you will," she said. "I shall finish it, and you will read it in +Petershof." + +"I shall not be going back to Petershof," he said. "Why should I go +there now?" + +"For the same reason that you went there eight years ago," she said. + +"I went there for my mother's sake," he said. + +"Then you will go there now for my sake," she said deliberately. + +He looked up quickly. + +"Little Bernardine," he cried, "my Little Bernardine--is it possible +that you care what becomes of me?" + +She had been leaning against the counter, and now she raised herself, +and stood erect, a proud, dignified little figure. + +"Yes, I do care," she said simply, and with true earnestness. "I care +with all my heart. And even if I did not care, you know you would not +be free. No one is free. You know that better than I do. We do not +belong to ourselves: there are countless people depending on us, people +whom we have never seen, and whom we never shall see. What we do, +decides what they will be." + +He still did not speak. + +"But it is not for those others that I plead," she continued. "I plead +for myself. I can't spare you, indeed, indeed I can't spare you! . . ." + +Her voice trembled, but she went on bravely: + +"So you will go back to the mountains," she said. "You will live out +your life like a man. Others may prove themselves cowards, but the +Disagreeable Man has a better part to play." + +He still did not speak. Was it that he could not trust himself to words? +But in that brief time, the thoughts which passed through his mind were +such as to overwhelm him. A picture rose up before him: a picture of a +man and woman leading their lives together, each happy in the other's +love; not a love born of fancy, but a love based on comradeship and true +understanding of the soul. The picture faded, and the Disagreeable Man +raised his eyes and looked at the little figure standing near him. + +"Little child, little child," he said wearily, "since it is your wish, +I will go back to the mountains." + +Then he bent over the counter, and put his hand on hers. + +"I will come and see you to-morrow," he said. "I think there are one or +two things I want to say to you." + +The next moment he was gone. + +In the afternoon of that same day Bernardine went to the City. She was +not unhappy: she had been making plans for herself. She would work hard, +and fill her life as full as possible. There should be no room for +unhealthy thought. She would go and spend her holidays in Petershof. +There would be pleasure in that for him and for her. She would tell him +so to-morrow. She knew he would be glad. + +"Above all," she said to herself, "there shall be no room for unhealthy +thought. I must cultivate my garden." + +That was what she was thinking of at four in the afternoon: how she +could best cultivate her garden. + +At five she was lying unconscious in the accident-ward of the New +Hospital: she had been knocked down by a waggon, and terribly injured. + +She will not recover, the Doctor said to the nurse. "You see she is +sinking rapidly. Poor little thing!" + +At six she regained consciousness, and opened her eyes. The nurse bent +over her. Then she whispered: + +"Tell the Disagreeable Man how I wish I could have seen him to-morrow. +We had so much to say to each other. And now . . . ." + +The brown eyes looked at the nurse so entreatingly. It was a long time +before she could forget the pathos of those brown eyes. + +A few minutes later, she made another sign as though she wished to +speak. Nurse Katharine bent nearer. Then she whispered: + +"Tell the Disagreeable Man to go back to the mountains, and begin to +build his bridge: it must be strong and . . . ." + +Bernardine died. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE. + + +ROBERT ALLITSEN came to the old book-shop to see Zerviah Holme before +returning to the mountains. He found him reading Gibbon. These two men +had stood by Bernardine's grave. + +"I was beginning to know her," the old man said. + +"I have always known her," the young man said. "I cannot remember a +time when she has not been part of my life." + +"She loved you," Zerviah said. "She was telling me so the very morning +when you came." + +Then, with a tenderness which was almost foreign to him, Zerviah told +Robert Allitsen how Bernardine had opened her heart to him. She had +never loved any one before: but she had loved the Disagreeable Man. + +"I did not love him because I was sorry for him," she had said. "I +loved him for himself." + +Those were her very words. + +"Thank you," said the Disagreeable Man. "And God bless you for telling +me." + +Then he added: + +"There were some few loose sheets of paper on the counter. She had +begun her book. May I have them?" + +Zerviah placed them in his hand. + +"And this photograph," the old man said kindly. "I will spare it for +you." + +The picture of the little thin eager face was folded up with the papers. + +The two men parted. + +Zerviah Holme went back to his Roman History. The Disagreeable Man went +back to the mountains: to live his life out there, and to build his +bridge, as we all do, whether consciously or unconsciously. If it +breaks down, we build it again. + +"We will build it stronger this time," we say to ourselves. + +So we begin once more. + +We are very patient. + +And meanwhile the years pass. + + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Ships That Pass In The Night, by Beatrice Harraden + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT *** + +***** This file should be named 12476.txt or 12476.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/4/7/12476/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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