"No," said Bernardine, who was amused at the notion of Mr. Reffold
apologizing to Mrs. Reffold, and of Mrs. Reffold posing as the gracious
forgiver, "one can't do more." But she could not control her feelings,
and she laughed.

"You seem rather merry this afternoon," Mr. Reffold said, in a
reproachful tone of voice.

"Yes," she said. And she laughed again. Mrs. Reffold's forgiving
graciousness had altogether upset her gravity.

"You might at least tell us the joke," Mrs. Reffold said.  Bernardine
looked at her hopelessly, and laughed again.

"I have been developing photographs all the afternoon," she said, "and
I suppose the closeness of the air and the badness of my negatives have
been too much for me. Anyway, I know I must seem very rude."

She recovered herself after that, and tried hard not to think of
Mrs. Reffold as the dispenser of forgiveness, although it was some time
before she could look at her hostess without wishing to laugh. The
corners of her mouth twitched, and her brown eyes twinkled mischievously,
and she spoke very rapidly, making fun of her first attempts at
photography, and criticising herself so comically, that both and
Mrs. Reffold were much amused.

All the same, Bernardine was relieved when Mrs. Reffold went to fetch
some silks, and left her with Mr. Reffold.

"I am very happy this afternoon, Little Brick," he said to her. "My
wife has been sitting with me. But instead of enjoying the pleasure as
I ought to have done, I began to find fault with her. I don't know how
long I should not have gone on grumbling, but that I suddenly
recollected what you taught me: that we were not to come down like
sledge-hammers on each other's failings. When I remembered that, it was
quite easy to forgive all the neglect and thoughtlessness. Since you
have talked to me, Little Brick, everything has become easier to me!"

"It is something in your own mind which has worked this," she said;
"your own kind, generous mind, and you put it down to my words!"

But he shook his head.

"If I knew of any poor unfortunate devil that wanted to be eased and
comforted," he said, "I should tell him about you, Little Brick. You
have been very good to me. You may be clever, but you have never worried
my stupid brain with too much scholarship. I'm just an ignorant chap,
and you've never let me feel it."

He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips.

"I say," he continued, "tell my wife it made me happy to have her with
me this afternoon; then perhaps she will stay in another time. I should
like her to know. And she was sweet in her manner, wasn't she? And, by
Jove, she is beautiful! I am glad you have seen her here to-day. It must
be dull for her with an invalid like me. And I know I am irritable. Go
and tell her that she made me happy--will you?"

The little bit of happiness at which the poor fellow snatched, seemed
to make him more pathetic than before. Bernardine promised to tell his
wife, and went of to find her, making as an excuse a book which
Mrs. Reffold had offered to lend her. Mrs. Reffold was in her bedroom.
She asked. Bernardine to sit down whilst she searched for the book.
She had a very gracious manner when she chose.

"You are looking much better, Miss Holme," she said kindly. "I cannot
help noticing your face. It looks younger and brighter. The bracing air
has done you good."

"Yes, I am better," Bernardine said, rather astonished that Mrs. Reffold
should have noticed her at all. "Mr. Allitsen informs me that I shall
live, but never be strong. He settles every question of that sort to his
own satisfaction, but not always to the satisfaction of other people!"

"He is a curious person," Mrs. Reffold said smiling; "though I must say
he is not quite as gruff as he used to be. You seem to be good friends
with him."

She would have liked to say more on this subject, but experience had
taught her that Bernardine was not to be trifled with.

"I don't know about being good friends," Bernardine said, "but I have a
great sympathy for him. I know myself what it is to be cut off from
work and active life. I have been through a misery. But mine is nothing
to his."

She rose to go, but Mrs. Reffold detained her.

Don't go yet,' she said. "It is pleasant to have you."

She was leaning back in an arm-chair playing with the fringe of an
antimacassar.

"Oh, how tired I am of this horrid place!" she said suddenly. "And I
have had a most wearying afternoon.  Mr. Reffold seems to be more
irritable every day. It is very hard that I should have to bear it."

Bernardine listened to her in astonishment.

"Yes," she added, "I am quite worn out. He never used to be so
irritable. It is all very tiresome. It is quite telling on my health."

She looked the picture of health.

Bernardine gasped; and Mrs. Reffold continued:

"His grumbling this afternoon has been incessant; so much so that he
himself was ashamed, and asked me to forgive him. You heard him, didn't
you?"

"Yes, I heard him," Bernardine said.

"And of course I forgave him at once," Mrs. Reffold said piously.
"Naturally one would do that, but the vexation remains all the same."

"Can these things be!" thought Bernardine to herself

"He spoke in a most ridiculous way," she went on: "it certainly is not
encouraging for me to spend another afternoon with him. I shall go
sledging to-morrow."

"You generally do go sledging, don't you?" Bernardine asked mildly.

Mrs. Reffold looked at her suspiciously. She was never quite sure that
Bernardine was not making fun of her.

"It is little enough pleasure I do have," she added, as though in self-
defence. "And he seems to grudge me that too."

"I don't think he would grudge you anything," Bernardine said, with
some warmth. "He loves you too much for that. You don't know how much
pleasure you give him when you spare him a little of your time. He told
me how happy you made him this afternoon. You could see for yourself
that he was happy. Mrs. Reffold, make him happy whilst you still have
him. Don't you understand that he is passing away from you--don't you
understand, or is it that you won't? We all see it, all except you!"

She stopped suddenly, surprised at her boldness.

Mrs. Reffold was still leaning back in the arm-chair, her hands clasped
together above her beautiful head. Her face was pale. She did not speak.
Bernardine waited. The silence was unbroken save by the merry cries of
some children tobogganing in the Kurhaus garden. The stillness grew
oppressive, and Bernardine rose.  She knew from the effort which those
few words had cost her, how far removed she was from her old former self.

"Good-bye, Mrs. Reffold," she said nervously.

"Good-bye, Miss Holme," was the only answer.


CHAPTER XIV.

CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS


THE Doctors in Petershof always said that the caretakers of the invalids
were a much greater anxiety than the invalids themselves. The invalids
would either get better or die: one of two things probably. At any rate,
you knew where you were with them. But not so with the caretakers: there
was nothing they were not capable of doing--except taking reasonable
care of their invalids! They either fussed about too much, or else they
did not fuss about at all. They all began by doing the right thing: they
all ended by doing the wrong. The fussy ones had fits of apathy, when
the poor irritable patients seemed to get a little better; the negligent
ones had paroxysms of attentiveness, when their invalids, accustomed to
loneliness and neglect, seemed to become rather worse by being worried.

To remonstrate with the caretakers would have been folly: for they were
well satisfied with their own methods.

To contrive their departure would have been an impossibility: for they
were firmly convinced that their presence was necessary to the welfare
of their charges. And then, too, judging from the way in which they
managed to amuse themselves, they liked being in Petershof, though they
never owned that to the invalids. On the contrary, it was the custom for
the caretakers to depreciate the place, and to deplore the necessity
which obliged them to continue there month after month. They were fond,
too, of talking about the sacrifices which they made, and the pleasures
which they willingly gave up in order to stay with their invalids. They
said this in the presence of their invalids. And if the latter had told
them by all means to pack up and go back to the pleasures which they
had renounced, they would have been astonished at the ingratitude which
could suggest the idea.

They were amusing characters, these caretakers. They were so thoroughly
unconscious of their own deficiencies. They might neglect their own
invalids, but they would look after other people's invalids, and play
the nurse most soothingly and prettily where there was no call and no
occasion. Then they would come and relate to their neglected dear ones
what they had been doing for others: and the dear ones would smile
quietly, and watch the buttons being stitched on for strangers, and the
cornflour which they could not, get nicely made for themselves, being
carefully prepared for other people's neglected dear ones.

Some of the dear ones were rather bitter. But there were many of a
higher order of intelligence, who seemed to realize that they had no
right to be ill, and that being ill, and therefore a burden on their
friends, they must make the best of everything, and be grateful for
what was given them, and patient when anything was withheld. Others of
a still higher order of understanding, attributed the eccentricities of
the caretakers to one cause alone: the Petershof air. They know it had
the invariable effect of getting into the head, and upsetting the
balance of those who drank deep of it. Therefore no one was to blame,
and no one need be bitter. But these were the philosophers of the
colony: a select and dainty few in any colony. But there were several
rebels amongst the invalids, and they found consolation in confiding to
each other their separate grievances. They generally held their
conferences in the rooms known as the newspaper-rooms, where they were
not likely to be interrupted by any caretakers who might have stayed at
home because, they were tired out.

To-day there were only a few rebels gathered together, but they were
more than usually excited, because the Doctors had told several of them
that their respective caretakers must be sent home.

"What must I do?" said little Mdlle. Gerardy, wringing her hands. "The
Doctor says that I must tell my sister to go home: that she only worries
me, and makes me worse. He calls her a 'whirlwind.' If I won't tell her,
then he will tell her, and we shall have some more scenes. Mon Dieu! and
I am so tired of them. They terrify me. I would suffer anything rather
than have a fresh scene.  And I can't get her to do anything for, me.
She has no time for, me. And, yet she thinks she takes the greatest
possible care of me, and devotes the whole day to me. Why, sometimes I
never see her for hours together."

"Well, at least she does not quarrel with every one, as my mother does,"
said a Polish gentleman, M. Lichinsky. "Nearly every day she has a
quarrel with some one or other; and then she comes to me and says she
has been insulted. And others come to me mad with rage, and complain
that they have been insulted by her. As though I were to blame! I tell
them that now. I tell them that my mother's quarrels are not my quarrels.
But one longs for peace. And the Doctor says I must have it, and that
my mother must go home at once. If I tell her that, she will have a
tremendous quarrel with the Doctor. As it is, he will scarcely speak to
her. So you see, Mademoiselle Gerardy, that I, too, am in a bad plight.
What am I to do?"

Then a young American spoke. He had been getting gradually worse since
he came to Petershof, but his brother, a bright sturdy young fellow,
seemed quite unconscious of the seriousness of his condition.

"And what am I to do?" he asked pathetically. "My brother does not even
think I am ill. He says I am to rouse myself and come skating and
tobogganing with him. Then I tell him that the Doctor says I must lie
quietly in the sun. I have no one to take care of me, so I try to take
a little care of myself, and then I am laughed at. It is bad enough to
be ill; but it is worse when those who might help you a little, won't
even believe in your illness. I wrote home once and told them; but they
go by what he says; and they, too, tell me to rouse myself."

His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were leaden. There was no power in his
voice, no vigour in his frame. He was just slipping quickly down the
hill for want of proper care and understanding.

"I don't know whether I am much better off than you," said an English
lady, Mrs. Bridgetower. "I certainly have a trained nurse to look after
me, but she is altogether too much for me, and she does just as she
pleases. She is always ailing, or else pretends to be; and she is always
depressed. She grumbles from eight in the morning till nine at night.
I have heard that she is cheerful with other people, but she never gives
me the benefit of her brightness. Poor thing! She does feel the cold
very much, but it is not very cheering to see her crouching neat the
stove, with her arms almost clasping it! When she is not talking of her
own looks, all she says is: 'Oh, if I had only not come to Petershof!'
or, 'Why did I ever leave that hospital in Manchester?' or, 'The cold
is eating into the very marrow of my bones.' At first she used to read
to me; but it was such a dismal performance that I could not bear to
hear her. Why don't I send her home? Well, my husband will not hear of
me being alone, and he thinks I might do worse than keep Nurse Frances.
And perhaps I might."

"I would give a good deal to have a sister like pretty Fräulein Müller
has," said little Fräulein Oberhof. "She came to look after me the other
day when I was alone. She has the kindest way about her. But when my
sister came in, she was not pleased to find Fräulein Sophie Müller with
me. She does not do anything for me herself, and she does not like any
one else to do anything either. Still, she is very good to other people.
She comes up from the theatre sometimes at half-past nine--that is the
hour when I am just sleepy--and she stamps about the room, and makes
cornflour for the old Polish lady. Then off she goes, taking with her
the cornflour together with my sleep. Once I complained, but she said I
was irritable. You can't think how teasing it is to hear the noise of
the spoon stirring the cornflour just when you are feeling drowsy. You
say to yourself, 'Will that cornflour never be made? It seems to take
centuries."

"One could be more patient if it were being made for oneself," said
M. Lichinsky. "But at least, Fräulein, your sister does not quarrel
with every one. You must be grateful for that mercy!"

Even as he spoke, a stout lady thrust herself into the reading-room.
She looked very hot and excited. She was M. Lichinsky's mother. She
spoke, with a whirlwind of Polish words. It is sometimes difficult to
know when these people are angry and when they are pleased. But there
was no mistake about Mme. Lichinsky. She was always angry. Her son rose
from the sofa and followed her to the door. Then he turned round to his
confederates, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Another quarrel!" he said hopelessly.


CHAPTER XV.

WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING.


"YOU may have talent for other things," Robert Allitsen said one day to
Bernardine, "but you certainly have no talent for photography. You have
not made the slightest progress."

"I don't at all agree with you," Bernardine answered rather peevishly.
"I think I am getting on very well."

"You are no judge," he said. "To begin with, you cannot focus properly.
You have a crooked eye. I have told you that several times!"

"You certainly have," she put in. "You don't let me forget that."

"Your photograph of that horrid little danseuse whom you like so much,"
he said, "is simply abominable. She looks like a fury. Well, she may be
one for all I know, but in real life she has not the appearance of one."

"I think that is the best photograph I have done," Bernardine said,
highly indignant. She could tolerate his uppishness about subjects of
which she knew far more than he did; but his masterfulness about a
subject of which she really knew nothing was more than she could bear
with patience. He had not the tact to see that she was irritated.

"I don't know about it being the best," he said; "unless it is the best
specimen of your inexperience. Looked at from that point of view, it
does stand first!"

She flushed crimson with temper.

"Nothing is easier than to make fun of others," she said fiercely. "It
is the resource of the ignorant."

Then, after the fashion of angry women, having said her say, she stalked
away. If there had been a door to bang, she would certainly have banged
it. However, she did what she could under the circumstances: she pushed
a curtain roughly aside, and passed into the concert-room, where every
night of the season's six months, a scratchy string orchestra entertained
the Kurhaus guests. She left the Disagreeable Man standing in the passage.

"Dear me," he said thoughtfully. And he stroked his chin. Then he trudged
slowly up to his room.

"Dear me," he said once more.

Arrived in his bedroom, he began to read. But after a few minutes he
shut his book, took the lamp to the looking-glass and brushed his hair.
Then he put on a black coat and a white silk tie. There was a speck of
dust on the coat. He carefully removed that, and then extinguished the
lamp.

On his way downstairs he met Marie, who gazed at him in astonishment.
It was quite unusual for him to be seen again when he had once come up
from _table-d'hôte_. She noticed the black coat and the white silk tie
too, and reported on these eccentricities to her colleague Anna.

The Disagreeable Man meanwhile had reached the Concert Hall. He glanced
around, and saw where Bernardine was sitting, and then chose a place in
the opposite direction, quite by himself. He looked somewhat like a dog
who has been well beaten. Now and again he looked up to see whether she
still kept her seat. The bad music was a great irritation to him. But he
stayed on heroically. There was no reason why he should stay. Gradually,
too, the audience began to thin. Still he lingered, always looking like
a dog in punishment.

At last Bernardine rose, and the Disagreeable Man rose too. He followed
her humbly to the door. She turned and saw him.

"I am sorry I put you in a bad temper," he said. "It was stupid of me."

"I am sorry I got into a bad temper," she answered, laughing. "It was
stupid of me."

"I think I have said enough to apologize," he said. "It is a process I
dislike very much."

And with that he wished her good-night and went to his room.

But that was not the end of the matter, for the next day when he was
taking his breakfast with her, he of his own accord returned to the
subject.

"It was partly your own fault that I vexed you last night," he said.
"You have never before been touchy, and so I have become accustomed to
saying what I choose. And it is not in my nature to be flattering."

"That is a very truthful statement of yours," she said, as she poured
out her coffee. "But I own I was touchy. And so I shall be again if you
make such cutting remarks about my photographs!"

"You have a crooked eye," he said grimly. "Look there, for instance!
You have poured your coffee outside the cup. Of course you can do as
you like, but the usual custom is to pour it inside the cup."

They both laughed, and the good understanding between them was cemented
again.

"You are certainly getting better," he said suddenly. "I should not be
surprised if you were able to write a book after all. Not that a new
book is wanted. There are too many books as it is; and not enough people
to dust them. Still, it is not probable that you would be considerate
enough to remember that. You will write your book."

Bernardine shook her head.

"I don't seem to care now," she said. "I think I could now be content
with a quieter and more useful part."

"You will write your book," he continued. "Now listen to me. Whatever
else you may do, don't make your characters hold long discussions with
each other. In real life, people do not talk four pages at a time
without stopping. Also, if you bring together two clever men, don't make
them talk cleverly. Clever people do not. It is only the stupid who
think they must talk cleverly all the time. And don't detain your reader
too long: if you must have a sunset, let it be a short one. I could give
you many more hints which would be useful to you."

"But why not use your own hints for yourself?" she suggested.

"That would be selfish of me," he said solemnly. "I wish you to profit
by them."

"You are learning to be unselfish at a very rapid rate," Bernardine said.

At that moment Mrs. Reffold came into the breakfast-room, and, seeing
Bernardine, gave her a stiff bow.

"I thought you and Mrs. Reffold were such friends," Robert Allitsen said.

Bernardine then told him of her last interview with Mrs. Reffold.

"Well, if you feel uncomfortable, it is as it should be," he said. "I
don't see what business you had to point out to Mrs. Reffold her duty.
I dare say she knows it quite well though she may not choose to do it.
I am sure I should resent it, if any one pointed out my duty to me.
Every one knows his own duty. And it is his own affair whether or not
he does it."

"I wonder if you are right," Bernardine said. "I never meant to presume;
but her indifference had exasperated me."

"Why should you be exasperated about other people's affairs?" he said.
"And why interfere at all?"

"Being interested is not the same as being interfering," she replied
quickly.

"It is difficult to be the one without being the other," he said. "It
requires a genius. There is a genius for being sympathetic as well as
a genius for being good. And geniuses are few."

"But I knew one," Bernardine said. "There was a friend to whom in the
first days of my trouble I turned for sympathy. When others only
irritated, she could soothe. She had only to come into my room, and
all was well with me."

There were tears in Bernardine's eyes as she spoke.

"Well," said the Disagreeable Man kindly, "and where is your genius now?"

"She went away, she and hers," Bernardine said "And that was the end of
that chapter!"

"Poor little child," he said, half to himself. "Don't I too know
something about the ending of such a chapter?"

But Bernardine did not hear him; she was thinking of her friend. She was
thinking, as we all think, that those to whom in our suffering we turn
for sympathy, become hallowed beings. Saints they may not be; but for
want of a better name, saints they are to us, gracious and lovely
presences. The great time Eternity, the great space Death, could not rob
them of their saintship; for they were canonized by our bitterest tears.

She was roused from her reverie by the Disagreeable Man, who got up, and
pushed his chair noisily under the table.

"Will you come and help me to develop some photographs?" he asked
cheerily. "You do not need to have a straight eye for that!"

Then as they went along together, he said:

"When we come to think about it seriously, it is rather absurd for us to
expect to have uninterrupted stretches of happiness. Happiness falls to
our share in separate detached bits; and those of us who are wise,
content ourselves with these broken fragments."

"But who is wise?" Bernardine asked. "Why, we all expect to be happy.
No one told us that we were to be happy. Still, though no one told us,
it is the true instinct of human nature."

"It would be interesting to know at what particular period of evolution
into our present glorious types we felt that instinct for the first
time," he said. "The sunshine must have had something to do with it.
You see how a dog throws itself down in the sunshine; the most wretched
cur heaves a sigh of content then; the sulkiest cat begins to purr."

They were standing outside the room set apart for the photograph-maniacs
of the Kurhaus.

"I cannot go into that horrid little hole," Bernardine said. "And
besides, I have promised to play chess with the Swedish professor.
And after that I am going to photograph Marie. I promised Wärli I would."

The Disagreeable Man smiled grimly.

"I hope he will be able to recognize her!" he said. Then, feeling that
he was on dangerous ground, he added quickly:

"If you want any more plates, I can oblige you."

On her way to her room she stopped to talk to pretty Fräulein Müller,
who was in high spirits, having had an excellent report from the Doctor.
Fräulein Müller always insisted on talking English with Bernardine; and
as her knowledge of it was limited, a certain amount of imagination was
necessary to enable her to be understood.

"Ah, Miss Holme," she said, "I have deceived an exquisite report from
the Doctor."

"You are looking ever so well," Bernardine said. "And the love-making
with the Spanish gentleman goes on well, too?"

"Ach!" was the merry answer. "That is your inventory! I am quite
indolent to him!"

At that moment the Spanish gentleman came out of the Kurhaus flower-
shop, with a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

"Mademoiselle," he said, handing them to Fräulein Müller, and at the
same time putting his hand to his heart. He had not noticed Bernardine
at first, and when he saw her, he became somewhat confused. She smiled
at them both, and escaped into the flower-shop, which was situated in
one of the covered passages connecting the mother-building with the
dependencies. Herr Schmidt, the gardener, was making a wreath. His
favourite companion, a saffron cat, was playing with the wire. Schmidt
was rather an ill-tempered man, but he liked Bernardine.

"I have put these violets aside for you, Fräulein," he said, in his
sulky way. "I meant to have sent them to your room, but have been
interrupted in my work."

"You spoil me with your gifts," she said.

"You spoil my cat with the milk," he replied, looking up from his work.

"That is a beautiful wreath you are making, Herr Schmidt," she said.
"Who has died? Any one in the Kurhaus?"

"No, Fräulein. But I ought to keep my door locked when I make these
wreaths. People get frightened, and think they, too, are going to die.
Shall you be frightened, I wonder?"

"No, I believe not," she answered as she took possession of her violets,
and stroked the saffron cat. "But I am glad no one has died here."

"It is for a young, beautiful lady," he said. "She was in the Kurhaus
two years ago. I liked her. So I am taking extra pains. She did not care
for the flowers to be wired. So I am trying my best without the wire.
But it is difficult."

She left him to his work, and went away, thinking. All the time she had
now been in Petershof had not sufficed to make her indifferent to the
sadness of her surroundings. In vain the Disagreeable Man's preachings,
in vain her own reasonings with herself.

These people here who suffered, and faded, and passed away, who were
they to her?

Why should the faintest shadow steal across her soul on account of them?

There was no reason. And still she felt for them all, she who in the old
days would have thought it waste of time to spare a moment's reflection
on anything so unimportant as the sufferings of an _individual_ human
being.

And the bridge between her former and her present self was her own
illness.

What dull-minded sheep we must all be, how lacking in the very elements
of imagination, since we are only able to learn by personal experience
of grief and suffering, something about the suffering and grief of
others!

Yea, how the dogs must wonder at us: those dogs who know when we are in
pain or trouble, and nestle nearer to us.

So Bernardine reached her own door. She heard her name called, and,
turning round, saw Mrs. Reffold. There was a scared look on the
beautiful face.

"Miss Holme," she said, "I have been sent for--I daren't go to him
alone--I want you--he is worse. I am" . . .

Bernardine took her hand, and the two women hurried away in silence.


CHAPTER XVI.

WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE.


BERNARDINE had seen Mr. Reffold the previous day. She had sat by his
side and held his hand. He had smiled at her many times, but he only
spoke once.

"Little Brick," he whispered--for his voice had become nothing but a
whisper. "I remember all you told me. God bless you. But what a long
time it does take to die."

But that was yesterday.

The lane had come to an ending at last, and Mr. Reffold lay dead.

They bore him to the little mortuary chapel. And Bernardine stayed with
Mrs. Reffold, who seemed afraid to be alone. She clung to Bernardine's
hand.

"No, no," she said excitedly, "you must not go! I can't bear to be
alone: you must stay with me!"

She expressed no sorrow, no regret. She did not even speak his name.
She just sat nursing her beautiful face.

Once or twice Bernardine tried to slip away. This waiting about was a
strain on her, and she felt that she was doing no good.

But each time Mrs. Reffold looked up and prevented her.

"No, no," she said. "I can't bear myself without you. I must have you
near me. Why should you leave me?"

So Bernardine lingered. She tried to read a book which lay on the table.
She counted the lines and dots on the wall-paper. She thought about the
dead man; and about the living woman. She had pitied him; but when she
looked at the stricken face of his wife, Bernardine's whole heart rose
up in pity for her. Remorse would come, although it might not remain
long. The soul would see itself face to face for one brief moment; and