At last he seemed to summon up courage.
"Little Brick," he said, in a weak low voice, "I have something on my
mind. You won't laugh, I know. You're not the sort. I know you're clever
and thoughtful, and all that; you could tell me more than all the
parsons put together. I know you're clever; my wife says so. She says
only a very clever woman would wear such boots and hats!"

Bernardine smiled.

"Well," she said kindly, "tell me."

"You must have thought a good deal, I suppose," he continued, "about
life and death, and that sort of thing. I've never thought at all. Does
it matter, Little Brick? It's too late now. I can't begin to think. But
speak to me; tell me what you think. Do you believe we get another
chance, and are glad to behave less like curs and brutes? Or is it all
ended in that lonely little churchyard here? I've never troubled about
these things before, but now I know I am so near that gloomy little
churchyard--well, it makes me wonder. As for the Bible, I never cared
to read it, I was never much of a reader, though I've got through two
or three firework novels and sporting stories. Does it matter, Little
Brick?"

"How do I know?" she said gently. "How does any one know? People say
they know; but it is all a great mystery--nothing but a mystery.
Everything that we say, can be but a guess. People have gone mad over
their guessing, or they have broken their hearts. But still the mystery
remains, and we cannot solve it."

"If you don't know anything, Little Brick," he said, "at least tell me
what you think: and don't be too learned; remember I'm only a brainless
fellow."

He seemed to be waiting eagerly for her answer.

"If I were you," she said, "I should not worry. Just make up your mind
to do better when you get another chance. One can't do more than that.
That is what I shall think of: that God will give each one of us another
chance, and that each one of us will take it and do better--I and you
and every one. So there is no need to fret over failure, when one hopes
one may be allowed to redeem that failure later on. Besides which, life
is very hard. Why, we ourselves recognize that. If there be a God, some
Intelligence greater than human intelligence, he will understand better
than ourselves that life is very hard and difficult, and he will be
astonished not _because we are not better, but because we are not
worse_. At least, that would be my notion of a God. I should not worry,
if I were you. Just make up your mind to do better if you get the
chance, and be content with that."

"If that is what you think, Little Brick," he answered, "it is quite
good enough for me. And it does not matter about prayers and the Bible,
and all that sort of thing?"

"I don't think it matters," she said. "I never have thought such things
mattered. What does matter, is to judge gently, and not to come down
like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings. Who are we, any of us,
that we should be hard on others?"

"And not come down like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings," he
repeated slowly. "I wonder if I have ever judged gently."

"I believe you have," she answered.

He shook his head.

"No," he said; "I have been a paltry fellow. I have been lying here,
and elsewhere too, eating my heart away with bitterness, until you came.
Since then I have sometimes forgotten to feel bitter. A little kindness
does away with a great deal of bitterness."

He turned wearily on his side.

"I think I could sleep, Little Brick," he said, almost in a whisper.
"I want to dream about your sermon.  And I'm not to worry, am I?"

"No," she answered, as she stepped noiselessly across the room; "you
are not to worry."


CHAPTER X.

THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT.


ONE specially fine morning a knock came at Bernardine's door. She
opened it, and found Robert Allitsen standing there, trying to recover
his breath.

"I am going to Loschwitz, a village about twelve miles off," he said.
"And I have ordered a sledge. Do you care to come too?"

"If I may pay my share," she said.

"Of course," he answered; "I did not suppose you would like to be paid
for any better than I should like to pay for you."

Bernardine laughed.

"When do we start?" she asked.

"Now," he answered. "Bring a rug, and also that shawl of yours which is
always falling down, and come at once without any fuss. We shall be out
for the whole day. What about Mrs. Grundy? We could manage to take her
if you wished, but she would not be comfortable sitting amongst the
photographic apparatus, and I certainly should not give up my seat to
her."

"Then leave her at home," said Bernardine cheerily.

And so they settled it.

In less than a quarter of an hour they had started; and Bernardine
leaned luxuriously back to enjoy to the full her first sledge-drive.

It was all new to her: the swift passing through the crisp air without
any sensation of motion; the sleepy tinkling of the bells on the horses'
heads; the noiseless cutting through of the snow-path.

All these weeks she had known nothing of the country, and now she found
herself in the snow fairy-land of which the Disagreeable Man had often
spoken to her.  Around, vast plains of untouched snow, whiter than any
dream of whiteness, jewelled by the sunshine with priceless diamonds,
numberless as the sands of the sea. The great pines bearing their burden
of snow patiently; others, less patient, having shaken themselves free
from what the heavens had sent them to bear. And now the streams,
flowing on reluctantly over ice-coated rocks, and the ice cathedrals
formed by the icicles between the rocks.

And always the same silence, save for the tinkling of the horses' bells.

On the heights the quaint chalets, some merely huts for storing wood; on
others, farms, or the homes of peasants; some dark brown, almost black,
betraying their age; others of a paler hue, showing that the sun had not
yet mellowed them into a deep rich colour. And on all alike, the fringe
of icicles. A wonderful white world.

It was a long time before Bernardine even wished to speak. This
beautiful whiteness may become monotonous after a time, but there is
something very awe-inspiring about it, something which catches the soul
and holds it.

The Disagreeable Man sat quietly by her side. Once or twice he bent
forward to protect the camera when the sledge gave a lurch.

After some time they met a procession of sledges laden with timber;
and August, the driver, and Robert Allitsen exchanged some fun and
merriment with the drivers in their quaint blue smocks. The noise of
the conversation, and the excitement of getting past the sledges,
brought Bernardine back to speech again.

"I have never before enjoyed anything so much," she said.

"So you have found your tongue," he said. "Do you mind talking a little
now? I feel rather lonely."

This was said in such a pathetic, aggrieved tone, that Bernardine
laughed and looked at her companion. His face wore an unusually bright
expression. He was evidently out to enjoy himself.

"_You_ talk," she said; "and tell me all about the country."

And he told her what he knew, and, amongst other things, about the
avalanches. He was able to point out where some had fallen the previous
year. He stopped in the middle of his conversation to tell her to put up
her umbrella.

"I can't trouble to hold it for you," he said; "but I don't mind opening
it. The sun is blazing to-day, and you will get your eyes bad if you are
not careful. That would be a pity, for you seem to me rather better
lately."

"What a confession for you to make of any one!" said she.

"Oh, I don't mean to say that you will ever get well," he added grimly.
"You seem to have pulled yourself in too many directions for that. You
have tried to be too alive; and, now you are obliged to join the genus
cabbage."

"I am certainly less ill than I was when I first came," she said; "and I
feel in a better frame of mind altogether. I am learning a good deal in
sad Petershof."

"That is more than I have done," he answered.

"Well, perhaps you teach instead," she said. "You have taught me several
things. Now, go on telling me about the country people. You like them?"

"I love them," he said simply. "I know them well, and they know me. You
see I have been in this district so long now, and have walked about so
much, that the very wood cutters know me; and the drivers give me lifts
on their piles of timber."

"You are not surly with the poor people, then?" said Bernardine; "though
I must say I cannot imagine you being genial. Were you ever genial, I
wonder?"

"I don't think that has ever been laid to my charge," he answered.

The time passed away pleasantly. The Disagreeable Man was scarcely
himself to-day; or was it that he was more like himself? He seemed in a
boyish mood; he made fun out of nothing, and laughed with such young
fresh laughter, that even August, the grave blue-spectacled driver, was
moved to mirth. As for Bernardine, she had to look at Robert Allitsen
several times to be sure that he was the same Robert Allitsen she had
known two hours ago in Petershof. But she made no remark, and showed no
surprise, but met his merriness half way. No one could be a cheerier
companion than herself when she chose.

At last they arrived at Loschwitz. The sledge wound its way through the
sloshy streets of the queer little village, and finally drew up in front
of the Gasthaus. It was a black sunburnt châlet, with green shutters,
and steps leading up to a green balcony. A fringe of sausages hung from
the roof; red bedding was scorching in the sunshine; three cats were
sunning themselves on the steps; a young woman sat in the green balcony
knitting. There were some curious inscriptions on the walls of the
châlet, and the date was distinctly marked, "1670."

An old woman over the way sat in her doorway spinning. She looked up as
the sledge stopped before the Gasthaus; but the young woman in the green
balcony went on knitting, and saw nothing.

A buxom elderly Hausfrau, came out to greet the guests. She wore a
naturally kind expression on her old face, but when she saw who the
gentleman was, the kindness positive increased to kindness superlative.

She first retired and called out:

"Liza, Fritz, Liza, Trüdchen, come quickly!"

Then she came back, and cried:

"Herr Allitsen, what a surprise!"

She shook his hand times without number, greeted Bernardine with
motherly tenderness, and interspersed all her remarks with frantic
cries of "Liza, Fritz, Trüdchen, make haste!"

She became very hot and excited, and gesticulated violently.

All this time the young woman sat knitting, but not looking up. She
had been beautiful, but her face was worn now, and her eyes had that
vacant stare which betokened the vacant mind.

The mother whispered to Robert Allitsen:

"She notices no one now; she sits there always waiting."

Tears came into the kind old eyes.

Robert Allitsen went and bent down to the young woman, and held out
his hand.

"Catharina," he said gently.

She looked up then, and saw him, and recognized him.

Then the sad face smiled a welcome.

He sat near her, and took her knitting in his hand, pretending to
examine what she had done, chatting to her quietly all the time. He
asked her what she had been doing with herself since he had last seen
her, and she said:

"Waiting. I am always waiting."

He knew that she referred to her lover, who had been lost in an
avalanche the eve before their wedding morning. That was four years ago,
but Catharina was still waiting. Allitsen remembered her as a bright
young girl, singing in the Gasthaus, waiting cheerfully on the guests:
a bright gracious presence. No one could cook trout as she could; many a
dish of trout had she served up for him. And now she sat in the sunshine,
knitting and waiting, scarcely ever looking up. That was her life.

"Catharina," he said, as he gave her back her knitting, "do you remember
how you used to cook me the trout?"

Another smile passed over her face. Yes, she remembered.

"Will you cook me some to-day?"

She shook her head, and returned to her knitting.

Bernardine watched the Disagreeable Man with amazement. She could not
have believed that his manner could be so tender and kindly. The old
mother standing near her whispered:

"He was always so good to us all; we love him, every one of us. When
poor Catharina was betrothed five years ago, it was to Herr Allitsen we
first told the good news. He has a wonderful way about him--just look at
him with Catharina now. She has not noticed any one for months, but she
knows him, you see."

At that moment the other members of the household came: Liza, Fritz, and
Trüdchen; Liza, a maiden of nineteen, of the homely Swiss type; Fritz, a
handsome lad of fourteen; and Trüdchen, just free from school, with her
school-satchel swung on her back. There was no shyness in their greeting;
the Disagreeable Man was evidently an old and much-loved friend, and
inspired confidence, not awe. Trüdchen fumbled in his coat pocket, and
found what she expected to find there, some sweets, which she immediately
began to eat, perfectly contented and self-satisfied. She smiled and
nodded at Robert Allitsen, as though to reassure him that the sweets
were not bad, and that she was enjoying them.

"Liza will see to lunch," said the old mother. "You shall have some
mutton cutlets and some _forellen_. But before she goes, she has
something to tell you."

"I am betrothed to Hans," Liza said, blushing.

"I always knew you were fond of Hans," said the Disagreeable Man.
"He is a good fellow, Liza, and I'm glad you love him. But haven't you
just teased him!"

"That was good for him," Liza said brightly.

"Is he here to-day?" Robert Allitsen asked.

Liza nodded.

"Then I shall take your photographs," he said.

While they had been speaking, Catharina rose from her seat, and passed
into the house.

Her mother followed her, and watched her go into the kitchen.

"I should like to cook the _forellen_," she said very quietly.

It was months since she had done anything in the house. The old mother's
heart beat with pleasure.

"Catharina, my best loved child!" she whispered; and she gathered the
poor suffering soul near to her.

In about half an hour the Disagreeable Man and Bernardine sat down to
their meal. Robert Allitsen had ordered a bottle of Sassella, and he was
just pouring it out when Catharina brought in the _forellen_.

"Why, Catharina," he said, "you don't mean you've cooked them? Then they
will be good!" She smiled, and seemed pleased, and then went out of the
room.

Then he told Bernardine her history, and spoke with such kindness and
sympathy that Bernardine was again amazed at him. But she made no remark.

"Catharina was always sorry that I was ill," he said. "When I stayed
here, as I have done, for weeks together, she used to take every care
of me. And it was a kindly sympathy which I could not resent. In those
days I was suffering more than I have done for a long time now, and she
was very pitiful. She could not bear to hear me cough. I used to tell
her that she must learn not to feel. But you see she did not learn her
lesson, for when this trouble came on her, she felt too much. And you
see what she is."

They had a cheery meal together, and then Bernardine talked with the
old mother, whilst the Disagreeable Man busied himself with his camera.
Liza was for putting on her best dress, and doing her hair in some
wonderful way. But he would not hear of such a thing. But seeing that
she looked disappointed, he gave in, and said she should be photographed
just as she wished; and off she ran to change her attire. She went up to
her room a picturesque, homely working girl, and she came down a tidy,
awkward-looking young woman, with all her finery on, and all her charm
off.

The Disagreeable Man grunted, but said nothing.

Then Hans arrived, and then came the posing, which caused much
amusement. They both stood perfectly straight, just as a soldier stands
before presenting arms. Both faces were perfectly expressionless. The
Disagreeable Man was in despair.

"Look happy!" he entreated.

They tried to smile, but the anxiety to do so produced an expression of
melancholy which was too much for the gravity of the photographer. He
laughed heartily.

"Look as though you weren't going to be photographed," he suggested.
"Liza, for goodness' sake look as though you were baking the bread;
and Hans, try and believe that you are doing some of your beautiful
carving."

The patience of the photographer was something wonderful. At last he
succeeded in making them appear at their ease. And then he told Liza
that she must go and change her dress, and be photographed now in the
way he wished. She came down again, looking fifty times prettier in her
working clothes.

Now he was in his element. He arranged Liza and Hans on the sledge of
timber, which had then driven up, and made a picturesque group of them
all: Hans and Liza sitting side by side on the timber, the horses
standing there so patiently after their long journey through the forests,
the driver leaning against his sledge smoking his long china pipe.

"That will be something like a picture," he said to Bernardine, when the
performance was over. "Now I am going for about a mile's walk. Will you
come with me and see what I am going to photograph, or will you rest
here till I come back?"

She chose the latter, and during his absence was shown the treasures
and possessions of a Swiss peasant's home.

She was taken to see the cows in the stalls, and had a lecture given her
on the respective merits of Schneewitchen, a white cow, Kartoffelkuehen,
a dark brown one, and Röslein, the beauty of them all. Then she looked
at the spinning-wheel, and watched the old Hausfrau turn the treadle.
And so the time passed, Bernardine making, good friends of them all.
Catharina had returned to her knitting, and began working, and, as
before, not noticing any one. But Bernardine sat by her side, playing
with the cat, and after a time Catharina looked up at Bernardine's
little thin face, and, after some hesitation, stroked it gently with
her hand.

"Fräulein is not strong," she said tenderly. "If Fräulein lived here,
I should take care of her."

That was a remnant of Catharina's past. She had always loved everything
that was ailing and weakly.

Her hand rested on Bernardine's hand. Bernardine pressed it in kindly
sympathy, thinking the while of the girl's past happiness and resent
bereavement.

"Liza is betrothed," she said, as though to herself. "They don't tell
me; but I know. I was betrothed once."

She went on knitting.  And that was all she said of herself.

Then after a pause she said:

"Fräulein is betrothed?"

Bernardine smiled, and shook her head, and Catharina made no further
inquiries. But she looked up from her work from time to time, and seemed
pleased that Bernardine still stayed with her. At last the old mother
came to say that the coffee was ready, and Bernardine followed her into
the parlour.

She watched Bernardine drinking the coffee, and finally poured herself
out a cup too.

"This is the first time Herr Allitsen has ever brought a friend," she
said. "He has always been alone. Fräulein is betrothed to Herr Allitsen--
is that so? Ah, I am glad. He is so good and, so kind."

Bernardine stopped drinking her coffee.

"No, I am not betrothed," she said cheerily. "We are just friends; and
not always that either. We quarrel."

"All lovers do that," persisted Frau Steinhart triumphantly.

"Well, you ask him yourself," said Bernardine, much amused. She had
never looked upon Robert Allitsen in that light before. "See, there
he comes!"

Bernardine was not present at the court martial, but this was what
occurred. Whilst the Disagreeable Man was paying the reckoning, Frau
Steinhart said in her most motherly tones:

"Fräulein is a very dear young lady: Herr Allitsen has made a wise
choice. He is betrothed at last!"

The Disagreeable Man stopped counting out the money.

"Stupid old Frau Steinhart!" he said good-naturedly. "People like myself
don't get betrothed. We get buried instead!"

"Na, na!" she answered. "What a thing to say--and so unlike you too!
No, but tell me!"

"Well, I am telling you the truth," he replied. "If you won't believe
me, ask Fräulein herself."

"I have asked her," said Frau Steinhart, "and she told me to ask you."

The Disagreeable Man was much amused. He had never thought of Bernardine
in that way.

He paid the bill, and then did something which rather astonished Frau
Steinhart, and half convinced her.

He took the bill to Bernardine, told her the amount of her share, and
she repaid him then and there.

There was a twinkle in her eye as she looked up at him. Then the
composure of her features relaxed, and she laughed.

He laughed too, but no comment was made upon the episode. Then began
the goodbyes, and the preparations for the return journey.

Bernardine bent over Catharina, and kissed her sad face.

"Fräulein will come again?" she whispered eagerly.

And Bernardine promised. There was something in Bernardine's manner
which had won the poor girl's fancy: some unspoken sympathy, some quiet
geniality.

Just as they were starting, Frau Steinhart whispered to Robert Allitsen:

"It is a little disappointing to me, Herr Allitsen. I did so hope you
were betrothed."

August, the blue-spectacled driver, cracked his whip, and of the horses
started homewards.

For some time there was no conversation between the two occupants of the
sledge. Bernardine, was busy thinking about the experiences of the day,
and the Disagreeable Man seemed in a brown study. At last he broke the
silence by asking her how she liked his friends, and what she thought
of Swiss home life; and so the time passed pleasantly.

He looked at her once, and said she seemed cold.

"You are not warmly clothed," he said. "I have an extra coat. Put it on;
don't make a fuss but do so at once. I know the climate and you don't."

She obeyed, and said she was all the cosier for it. As they were nearing
Petershof, he said half-nervously:

"So my friends took you for my betrothed. I hope you are not offended."

"Why should I be?" she said frankly. "I was only amused, because there
never were two people less lover-like than you and I are."

"No, that's quite true," he replied, in a tone of voice which betokened
relief.

"So that I really don't see that we need concern ourselves further in
the matter," she added wishing to put him quite at his ease. "I'm not
offended, and you are not offended, and there's an end of it."

"You seem to me to be a very sensible young woman in some respects," the
Disagreeable Man remarked after a pause. He was now quite cheerful again,
and felt he could really praise his companion. "Although you have read
so much, you seem to me sometimes to take a sensible view of things.
Now, I don't want to be betrothed to you, any more than I suppose you
want to be betrothed to me. And yet we can talk quietly about the matter
without a scene. That would be impossible with most women."

Bernardine laughed. "Well, I only know," she said cheerily, "that I have
enjoyed my day very much, and I'm much obliged to you for your
companionship. The fresh air, and the change of surroundings, will have
done me good."

His reply was characteristic of him.

"It is the least disagreeable day I have spent for many months," he said
quietly.

"Let me settle with you for the sledge now," she said, drawing out her
purse, just as they came in sight of the Kurhaus.

They settled money matters, and were quits.

Then he helped her out of the sledge, and he stooped to pick up the
shawl she dropped.

"Here is the shawl you are always dropping," he said. "You're rather
cold, aren't you? Here, come to the restaurant and have some brandy.
Don't make a fuss. I know what's the right thing for you!"

She followed him to the restaurant, touched by his rough kindness. He
himself took nothing, but he paid for her brandy.

That evening after _table-d'hôte_, or rather after he had finished his
dinner, he rose to go to his room as usual. He generally went off
without a remark. But to-night he said:

"Good-night, and thank you for your companionship. It has been my
birthday to-day, and I've quite enjoyed it."


CHAPTER XI.

"IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE."


THERE was a suicide in the Kurhaus one afternoon. A Dutchman, Vandervelt,
had received rather a bad account of himself from the doctor a few days
previously, and in a fit of depression, so it was thought, he had put a
bullet through his head. It had occurred through Marie's unconscious
agency. She found him lying on his sofa when she went as usual to take
him his afternoon glass of milk. He asked her to give him a packet which
was on the top shelf of his cupboard.

"Willingly," she said, and she jumped nimbly on the chair, and gave him
the case.

"Anything more?" she asked kindly, as she watched him draw himself up
from the sofa. She thought at the time that he looked wild and strange;
but then, as she pathetically said afterwards, who did not look wild
and strange in the Kurhaus?

"Yes," he said. "Here are five francs for you."

She thought that rather unusual too; but five francs, especially coming
unexpectedly like that, were not to be despised, and Marie determined to
send them off to that Mutterli at home in the nut-brown châlet at Grüsch.

So she thanked Mynheer van Vandervelt, and went off to her pantry to
drink some cold tea which the English people had left, and to clean the
lamps. Having done that, and knowing that the matron was busily engaged
carrying on a flirtation with a young Frenchman, Marie took out her
writing materials, and began a letter to her old mother. These peasants
know how to love each other, and some of them know how to tell each
other too. Marie knew. And she told her mother of the gifts she was
bringing home, the little nothings given her by the guests.

She was very happy writing this letter: the little nut-brown home rose
before her.

"Ach!" she said, "how I long to be home!"

And then she put down her pen, and sighed.

"Ach!" she said, "and when I'm there, I shall long to be here. _Da wo
ich nicht bin, da ist das Gluck_."

Marie was something of a philosopher.

Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, followed by a second report.
She dashed out of her little pantry, and ran in the direction of the
sound. She saw Wärli in the passage. He was looking scared, and his
letters had fallen to the ground. He pointed to No. 54.