AFTER this, scarcely a day passed but Bernardine went to see Mr. Reffold.The most inexperienced eye could have known that he was becoming rapidlyworse. Marie, the chambermaid, knew it, and spoke of it frequently toBernardine.
"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, theyareneglected, 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 theSporting and Dramatic Newsand theEraso 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 notbecause 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."
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.
"Youtalk," 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 someforellen. 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 theforellen," 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 theforellen.
"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 FrauSteinhart, 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 nearingPetershof, 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 aftertable-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."
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. WhenMarie 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 yourMutterli," 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, duringtable-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.
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."