then forget its own likeness.
But for the moment--what a weight of suffering, what a whole century of
agony!

Bernardine grew very tender for Mrs. Reffold: she bent over the sofa,
and fondled the beautiful face.

"Mrs. Reffold" . . .  she whispered.

That was all she said: but it was enough.

Mrs. Reffold burst into an agony of tears.

"Oh, Miss Holme," she sobbed, "and I was not even kind to him! And now
it is too late. How can I ever bear myself?"

And then it was that the soul knew its own remorse.


CHAPTER XVII.

A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES.


SHE had left him alone and neglected for whole hours when he was alive.
And now when he was dead, and it probably mattered little to him where
he was laid, it was some time before she could, make up her mind to
leave him in the lonely little Petershof cemetery.

"It will be so dreary for him there," she said to the Doctor.

"Not so dreary as you made it for him here," thought the Doctor.

But he did not say that: he just urged her quietly to have her husband
buried in Petershof; and she yielded.

So they laid him to rest in the dreary cemetery.

Bernardine went to the funeral, much against the Disagreeable Man's wish.

"You are looking like a ghost yourself," he said to her. "Come out with
me into the country instead."

But she shook her head.

"Another day," she said. "And Mrs. Reffold wants me. I can't leave her
alone, for she is so miserable."

The Disagreeable Man shrugged his shoulders, and went of by himself.

Mrs. Reffold clung very much to Bernardine those last days before she
left Petershof. She had decided to go to Wiesbaden, where she had
relations; and she invited Bernardine to go with her: it was more than
that, she almost begged her. Bernardine refused.

"I have been from England nearly five months," she said, "and my money
is coming to an end. I must go back and work."

"Then come away with me as my companion," Mrs. Reffold suggested. "And
I will pay you a handsome salary."

Bernardine could not be persuaded.

"No," she said. "I could not earn money that way: it would not suit me.
And besides, you would not care to be a long time with me: you would
soon tire of me. You think you would like to have me with you now. But
I know how it would be: You would be sorry, and so should I. So let us
part as we are now: you going your way, and I going mine. We live in
different worlds, Mrs. Reffold. It would be as senseless for me to
venture into yours, as for you to come into mine. Do you think I am
unkind?"

So they parted. Mrs. Reffold had spoken no word of affection to
Bernardine, but at the, station, as she bent down to kiss her, she
whispered:

"I know you will not think too hardly of me.  Still, will you promise
me? And if you are ever in trouble, and I can help you, will you write
to me?"

And Bernardine promised.

When she got back to her room, she found a small packet on her table.
It contained Mr. Reffold's watch-chain. She had so often seen him
playing with it. There was a little piece of paper enclosed with it,
and Mr. Reffold had written on it some two months ago: "Give my watch-
chain to Little Brick, if she will sacrifice a little of her pride, and
accept the gift." Bernardine unfastened her watch from the black hair
cord, and attached it instead to Mr. Reffold's massive gold chain.

As she sat there fiddling with it, the idea seized her that she would
be all the better for a day's outing. At first she thought she would go
alone, and then she decided to ask Robert Allitsen. She learnt from
Marie that he was in the dark room, and she hastened down. She knocked
several times before there was any answer.

"I can't be disturbed just now," he said. "Who is it?"

"I can't shout to you," she said.

The Disagreeable Man opened the door of the dark room.

"My negatives will be spoilt," he said gruffly. Then seeing Bernardine
standing there, he added:

"Why, you look as though you wanted some brandy."

"No," she said, smiling at his sudden change of manner. "I want fresh
air, a sledge drive, and a day's outing. Will you come?"

He made no answer, and retired once more into the dark room. Then he
came out with his camera.

"We will go to that inn again," he said cheerily. "I want to take the
photographs to those peasants."

In half an hours time they were on their way. It was the same drive as
before: and since then, Bernardine had seen more of the country, and was
more accustomed to the wonderful white scenery: but still the "white
presences" awed her, and still the deep silence held her. It was the
same scene, and yet not the same either, for the season was now far
advanced, and the melting of the snows had begun. In the far distance
the whiteness seemed as before; but on the slopes near at hand, the
green was beginning to assert itself, and some of the great trees had
cast off their heavy burdens, and appeared more gloomy in their freedom
than in the days of their snow-bondage. The roads were no longer quite
so even as before; the sledge glided along when it could, and bumped
along when it must. Still, there was sufficient snow left to make the
drive possible, and even pleasant.

The two companions were quiet. Once only the Disagreeable Man made a
remark, and then he said:

"I am afraid my negatives will be spoilt!"

"You said that before," Bernardine remarked.

"Well, I say it again," he answered in his grim way.

Then came a long pause.

"The best part of the winter is over," he said. "We may have some more
snow; but it is more probable that we shall not. It is not enjoyable
being here during the melting time."

"Well, in any case I should not be here much longer," she said; "and
for a simple reason, too. I have nearly come to the end of my money.
I shall have to go back and set to work again. I should not have been
able to give myself this chance, but that my uncle spared me some of
his money, to which I added my savings."

"Are you badly of?" the Disagreeable Man asked rather timidly.

"I have very few wants," she answered brightly. "And wealth is only a
relative word, after all.''

"It is a pity that you should go back to work so soon," he said half to
himself. "You are only just better; and it is easy to lose what one has
gained."

"Oh, I am not likely to lose," she answered; "but I shall be careful
this time. I shall do a little teaching, and perhaps a little writing:
not much--you need not be vexed. I shall not try to pick up the other
threads yet. I shall not be political, nor educational, nor anything
else great."

"If you call politics or education great," he said. "And heaven defend
me from political or highly educated women!"

"You say that because you know nothing about them," she said sharply.

"Thank you," he replied. "I have met them quite often enough!"

"That was probably some time ago," she said rather heartlessly. "If you
have lived here so long, how can you judge of the changes which go on
in the world outside Petershof?"

"If I have lived here so long," he repeated, in the bitterness of his
heart.

Bernardine did not notice: she was on a subject which always excited her.

"I don't know so much about the political women," she said, "but I do
know about the higher education people. The writers who rail against
the women of this date are really describing the women of ten years ago.
Why, the Girton girl of ten years ago seems a different creation from
the Girton girl of to-day. Yet the latter has been the steady outgrowth
of the former!"

"And the difference between them?" asked the Disagreeable Man; "since
you pride yourself on being so well informed."

"The Girton girl of ten years ago," said Bernardine, "was a, sombre,
spectacled person, carelessly and dowdily dressed, who gave herself up
to wisdom, and despised every one who did not know the Agamemnon by
heart. She was probably not lovable; but she deserves to be honoured
and thankfully remembered. She fought for woman's right to be well
educated, and I cannot bear to hear her slighted. The fresh-hearted
young girl who nowadays plays a good game of tennis, and takes a high
place in the Classical or Mathematical Tripos, and is book learnèd,
without being bookish, and . . ."

"What other virtues are left, I wonder?" he interrupted.

"And who does not scorn to take a pride in her looks because she happens
to take a pride in her books," continued Bernardine, looking at the
Disagreeable Man, and not seeming to see him: "she is what she is by
reason of that grave and loveless woman who won the battle for her."

Here she paused.

"But how ridiculous for me to talk to you in this way!" she said. "It
is not likely that you would be interested in the widening out of
women's lives."

"And pray why not?" he asked. "Have I been on the shelf too long?"

"I think you would not have been interested even if you had never been
on the shelf," she said frankly. "You are not the type of man to be
generous to woman."

"May I ask one little question of you, which shall conclude this
subject," he said, "since here we are already at the Gasthaus: to which
type of learned woman do you lay claim to belong?"

Bernardine laughed.

"That I leave to your own powers of discrimination." she said, and then
added, "if you have any."

And that was the end of the matter, for the word spread about that Herr
Allitsen had arrived, and every one turned out to give the two guests
greeting. Frau Steinhart smothered Bernardine with motherly tenderness,
and whispered in her ear:

"You are betrothed now, liebes Fräulein? Ach, I am sure of it."

But Bernardine smiled and shook her head, and went to greet the others
who crowded round them; and at last poor Catharina drew near too,
holding Bernardine's hand lovingly within her own. Then Hans, Liza's
lover, came upon the scene, and Liza told the Disagreeable Man that she
and Hans were to be married in a month's time. And the Disagreeable Man,
much to Bernardine's amazement, drew from his pocket a small parcel,
which he confided to Liza's care. Every one pressed round her while she
opened it, and found what she had so often wished for, a silver watch
and chain.

"Ach," she cried, "how heavenly! How all the girls here will envy me!
How angry my dear friend Susanna will be!"

Then there were the photographs to be examined.

Liza looked with stubborn disapproval on the pictures of herself in her
working-dress. But she did not conceal her admiration of the portraits
which showed her to the world in her best finery.

"Ach," she cried, "this is something like a photograph!"

The Disagreeable Man grunted, but behaved after the fashion of a hero,
claiming, however, a little silent sympathy from Bernardine.

It was a pleasant, homely scene: and Bernardine, who, felt quite at her
ease amongst these people, chatted away with them as though she had
known them all her life.

Then Frau Steinhart suddenly remembered that her guests needed some food,
and Liza was despatched to her duties as cook; though it was some time
before she could be induced to leave off looking at the photographs.

"Take them with you, Liza," said the Disagreeable Man. "Then we shall
get our meal all the quicker!"

She ran off laughing, and finally Bernardine found herself alone with
Catharina.

"Liza is very happy," she said to Bernardine. "She loves, and is loved."

"That is the greatest happiness," Bernardine said half to herself.

"Fräulein knows?" Catharina asked eagerly.

Bernardine looked wistfully at her companion. "No, Catharina," she said.
"I have only heard and read and seen."

"Then _you_ cannot understand," Catharina said almost proudly. "But _I_
understand!"

She spoke no more after that, but took up her knitting, and watched
Bernardine playing with the kittens. She was playing with the kittens,
and she was thinking; and all the time she felt conscious that this
peasant woman, stricken in mind and body, was pitying her because that
great happiness of loving and being loved had not come into her life.
It had seemed something apart from her; she had never even wanted it.
She had wished to stand alone, like a little rock out at sea.

And now?

In a few minutes the Disagreeable Man and she sat down to their meal.
In spite of her excitement, Liza managed to prepare everything nicely;
though when she was making the omelette _aux fines herbes_, she had to
be kept guarded lest she might run off to have another look at the
silver watch and the photographs of herself in her finest frock!

Then Bernardine and Robert Allitsen drank to the health of Hans and
Liza: and then came the time of reckoning. When he was paying the bill,
Frau Steinhart, having given him the change, said coaxingly:

"Last time, you and Fräulein each paid a share: to-day you pay all. Then
perhaps you are betrothed at last, dear Herr Allitsen? Ach, how the old
Hausfrau wishes you happiness! Who deserves to be happy, if it is not
our dear Herr Allitsen?"

"You have given me twenty centimes too much," he said quietly. "You
have your head so full of other things that you cannot reckon properly."

But seeing that she looked troubled lest she might have offended him,
he added quickly:

"When I am betrothed, good little old housemother, you shall be the
first to know."

And she had to be content with that. She asked no more questions of
either of them: but she was terribly disappointed. There was something
a little comical in her disappointment; but Robert Allitsen was not
amused at it, as he had been on a former occasion. As he leaned back
in the sledge, with the same girl for his companion, he recalled his
feelings. He had been astonished and amused, and perhaps a little shy,
and a great deal relieved that she had been sensible enough to be
amused too.

And now?

They had been constantly together for many months: he who had never
cared before for companionship, had found himself turning more and more
to her.

_And now he was going to lose her_.

He looked up once or twice to make sure that she was still by his side:
she sat there so quietly. At last he spoke in his usual gruff way.

"Have you exhausted all your eloquence in your oration about learned
women?" he asked.

"No, I am reserving it for a better audience," she answered, trying to
be bright. But she was not bright.

"I believe you came out to the country to day to seek for cheerfulness,"
he said after a pause. "Have you found it?"

"I do not know," she said. "It takes me some time to recover from
shocks; and Mr. Reffold's death was a sorrow to me. What do you think
about death? Have you any theories about life and death, and the bridge
between them? Could you say anything to help one?"

"Nothing," he answered. "Who could? And by what means?"

"Has there been no value in philosophy," she asked, "and the meditations
of learned men?"

"Philosophy!" he sneered. "What has it done for us? It has taught us
some processes of the mind's working; taught us a few wonderful things
which interest the few; but the centuries have come and gone, and the
only thing which the whole human race pants to know, remains unknown:
our beloved ones, shall we meet them, and how?--the great secret of the
universe. We ask for bread, and these philosophers give us a stone.
What help could come from them: or from any one? Death is simply one of
the hard facts of life."

"And the greatest evil," she said.

"We weave our romances about the next world," he continued; "and any
one who has a fresh romance to relate, or an old one dressed up in new
language, will be listened to, and welcomed. That helps some people for
a little while; and when the charm of the romance is over, then they
are ready for another, perhaps more fantastic than the last. But the
plot is always the same: our beloved ones--shall we meet them, and how?
Isn't it pitiful? Why cannot we be more impersonal? These puny, petty
minds of ours! When will they learn to expand?"

"Why should we learn to be more impersonal?" she said. "There was a time
when I felt like that; but now I have learnt something better: that we
need not be ashamed of being human; above all, of having the best of
human instincts, love, and the passionate wish for its continuance, and
the unceasing grief at its withdrawal. There is no indignity in this;
nor any trace of weakmindedness in our restless craving to know about
the Hereafter, and the possibilities of meeting again those whom we have
lost here. It is right, and natural, and lovely that it should be the
most important question. I know that many will say that there _are_
weightier questions: they say so, but do they think so? Do we want to
know first and foremost whether we shall do our work better elsewhere:
whether we shall be endowed with more wisdom: whether, as poor
Mr. Reffold said, we shall be glad to behave less like curs, and more
like heroes? These questions come in, but they can be put aside. The
other question can _never_ be put on one side. If that were to become
possible, it would only be so because the human heart had lost the best
part of itself, its own humanity. We shall go on building our bridge
between life and death, each one for himself. When we see that it is
not strong enough, we shall break it down and build another. We shall
watch other people building their bridges. We shall imitate, or
criticise, or condemn. But as time goes on, we shall learn not to
interfere, we shall know that one bridge is probably as good as the
other; and that the greatest value of them all has been in the building
of them. It does not matter what we build, but build we must: you, and I,
and every one."

"I have long ceased to build my bridge," the Disagreeable Man said.

"It is an almost unconscious process," she said. "Perhaps you are still
at work, or perhaps you are resting."

He shrugged his shoulders, and the two comrades fell into silence again.

They were within two miles of Petershof, when he broke the silence:
there was something wonderfully gentle in his voice.

"You little thing," he said, "we are nearing home, and I have something
to ask you. It is easier for me to ask here in the free open country,
where the space seems to give us breathing room for our cramped lungs
and minds!"

"Well," she said kindly; she wondered what he could have to say.

"I am a little nervous of offending you," he continued, "and yet I trust
you. It is only this. You said you had come to the end of your money,
and that you must go home. It seems a pity when you are getting better.
I have so much more than I need. I don't offer it to you as a gift, but
I thought if you wished to stay longer, a loan from me would not be
quite impossible to you. You could repay as quickly or as slowly as was
convenient to you, and I should only be grateful and" . . .

He stopped suddenly.

The tears had gathered in Bernardine's eyes her hand rested for one
moment on his arm.

"Mr. Allitsen," she said, "you did well to trust me. But I could not
borrow money of any one, unless I was obliged. If I could of any one,
it would have been of you. It is not a month ago since I was a little
anxious about money; my remittances did not come. I thought then that
if obliged to ask for temporary help, I should come to you: so you see
if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you."

A smile passed over the Disagreeable Man's face, one of his rare,
beautiful smiles.

"Supposing you change your mind," he said quietly, "you will not find
that I have changed mine."

Then a few minutes brought them back to Petershof.


CHAPTER XVIII.

A BETROTHAL.


HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his
answer. It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know
exactly where he stood in her affections. She had certainly given him
little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not
indifferent to his admiration. Little signs were all very well for a
short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end: she had told
him that she was going back to her work at home. And then perhaps he
would lose her altogether. It would not be safe now for him to delay a
single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with courage.

Wärli's brain was muddled that day. He who prided himself upon knowing
the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes
about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his
stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger
person than the little hunchback postman.

In fact, he ceased to care how he gave out the letters: all the
envelopes seemed to have the same name on them: _Marie Truog_. Every
word which he tried to decipher turned to that; so finally he tried no
more, leaving the destination of the letter to be decided by the
impulse of the moment. At last he arrived at that quarter of the
Kurhaus where Marie held sway. He heard her singing in her pantry.
Suddenly she was summoned downstairs by an impatient bellringer,
and on her return found Wärli waiting in the passage.

"What a goose you are!" she cried, throwing a letter at him; "you have
left the wrong letter at No. 82."

Then some one else rang, and Marie hurried off again. She came back with
another letter in her hand, and found Wärli sitting in her pantry.

"The wrong letter left at No. 54," she said, "and Madame in a horrid
temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Wärli! Can't you
read? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I'll sort them."

Wärli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead.

"I can't read to-day, Marie," he said; something has gone wrong with me.
Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every
one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you,
though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write
at the same time, to catch the same post."

"It would be very dull if they did," said Marie, who was polishing some
water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary.

"But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen," the little postman said.
"I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to
look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the
book itself is not a bad book."

Marie went on polishing the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the
light to admire their unwonted cleanness.

"I don't plead for myself," continued Wärli. "If you don't love me, that
is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will
marry me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all."

Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Wärli.

"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why
didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now."

"Oh. Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering
it with kisses; "you love some one else-you are already betrothed? And
now it's too late, and you love some one else!"

"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was
too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet
ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the
can; no, not one little drop!

"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Wärli, snatching the can out of her
hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know
about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like
this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all
Switzerland."

"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice;
"the truth and nothing else? Well, Wärli, if you must know . . . how I
grieve to hurt you . . ." Wärli's heart sank, the tears came into his
eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the
torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!"

A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract
any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp.
He discovered Wärli embracing his betrothed.

"I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But
directly afterwards he came back.

"The matron has just come upstairs," he said. And he hurried away.


CHAPTER XIX.

"SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING."


MANY of the guests in the foreign quarter had made a start downwards
into the plains; and the Kurhaus itself, though still well filled with
visitors, was every week losing some of its invalids. A few of the
tables looked desolate, and some were not occupied at all, the lingerers
having chosen, now that their party was broken up, to seek the refuge of
another table. So that many stragglers found their way to the English
dining-board, each bringing with him his own national bad manners, and
causing much annoyance to the Disagreeable Man, who was a true John Bull
in his contempt of all foreigners. The English table was, so he said,
like England herself: the haven of other nation's offscourings.

There were several other signs, too, that the season was far advanced.
The food had fallen of 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."