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.
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 theDisagreeable 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 theKurhaus saw her off at the station.
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:
"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.
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. Theyknew.
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, butBernardine 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 theDaily 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 . . . ."
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.
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 thePresence-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.
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 marriedMalvina. 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 youwillget 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 inPetershof."
"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 NewHospital: 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.
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.
End of Project Gutenberg's Ships That Pass In The Night, by Beatrice Harraden