<--,■ ,, 'ATRICE n^Ri^AOE^^ '^;ir^v ^-- o^^-- ^r--^'^ '■---».>, SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT.. "Bhips that pass in the night, and Epeali each other In passing, Onl; a signal shewn, and a distant voice in the darkntss ; 80, on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another. Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence " Ships That Pass In The Night BEATRICE HARRADEN BOSTON CHARLES E. BROWN & CO. TO MY DEAB FBIENDS, AGNES AND -JOHN KENDALL THIS LITTLE BOOK, ATBITTEN MOSTLY IN THEIB HOMEV IS LOVIMQLY DEDICATED. Jan. 12th, 1893. CONTENTS. PART L CBiPTca vaob , I. A NewComer ,^ ... 1 II. Which contains a Ffw DiCTAtLs 5 III. Mrs. Rfffold leahss uer Lesson 10 IV. Concerning Warli and Marie 20 V. The DisACiiEEACLE Man 25 VI. TuE Traveller and tiir Temple of Ekowledgb 35 VII. Dernahdine ... ■',.. 41 VIII. The Story move.-? on at last 62 IX. Rernaroine preach ns 60 X. The Disacreeadle Man is seen (n a New Light 70 XI. "If One has made ihe One Great Sacrifice" 93 XII. The Disagreeacle Man makes a Loax 104 XIII. A Domestic Scene , 120 XIV. Concerning the Cauetxkers .. .* 135 XV. Which contains Noihino .. ... 141 XVI. When the Soui, knows its own REMOUfK ... 158 XVII. A Return to Old Pastures . 161 VIIL A Betrothal ... . 182 XIX. Ships that speak each other in passing . .. 183 XX. A LoVE-LETTEtt 196 PART II. I. The Dusting of the Books 205 II. Bernardine begins her Book 216 III, Failure and Success : a Prolooue 218 IV. The Disagreeable Man gives up uis Freedom .. 222 V. The Building of the Bridus ._ ... ... 23J SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. PART I. CHAPTER I. A NEW-COMER. " Yes, indeed," remarked one of the guests at the EngHsh table, "yes, indeed, we start life thinking that we shall build a great cathedral, a crowning glory to architecture, and we end By Contriving a mud hut." "I am glad you think so well of human nature," said the Disagreeable Man, suddenly looking up from the newspaper which he always read during meal-time. " I should be more inclined to say that we end by being content to dig a hole, and get into it, like the earth men." A silence followed these words ; the English community at that end of the table was struck B 2 SI/JPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. with astonishment at hearing the Disagreeable Man speak. The few sentences he had spoken during the last four years at Petershof were on record ; this was decidedly the longest of them all. " He is going to speak again," whispered beautiful Mrs. Reffold to her neighbour. The Disagreeable Man once more looked up from his newspaper. " Please, pass me the Yorkshire relish," he said in his rough way to a girl sitting next to him. The spell was broken, and the conversation started afresh. But the girl who had passed the Yorkshire relish sat silent and listless, her food untouched, and her wine untasted. She was small and thin ; her face looked haggard. She was a new-comer, and had, indeed, arrived at Petershof only two hours before the tahle^ d'hote bell rang. But there did not seem to be any nervous shrinking in her manner, nor any shyness at having to face the two hundred and fifty guests of the Kurhaus. She seemed rather to be unaware of their presence ; or, if A NEW-COMER. 3 iaware of, certainly indifferent to the scrutiny under which she was being placed. She was recalled to reality by the voice of the Disagree- able Man. She did not hear what he said, but she mechanically stretched out her hand and passed him the mustard-pot. " Is that what you asked for ? " she said half dreamily ; " or was it the water-bottle ? " " You are rather deaf, I should think," said the Disagreeable Man placidly. " I only remarked that it was a pity you were not eating your dinner. Perhaps the scrutiny of the two hundred and fifty guests in this civilized place is a vexation to you." " I did not know they were scrutinizing," she answered; " and even if they are, what does it matter to me ? I am sure I am quite too tired to care." *' Why have you come here ? " asked the Disagreeable Man suddenly. *' Probably -for the same reason as yourself," she said ; " to get better or well." " You won't get better," he answered cruelly ; *' I know your type well ; you burn yourselves 4 Sff/PS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. out quickly. And — my God — how I envy youl" " So you have pronounced my doom," she said, looking at him intently. Then she laughed ; but there was no merriment in the laughter. "Listen," she said, as she bent nearer to him; "because you are hopeless, it does not follow that you should try to make others hopeless too. You have drunk deep of the cup of poison ; I can see that. To hand the cup on to others is the part of a coward." She walked past the English table, and the Polish table, and so out of the Kurhaus dining- haU. CHAPTER II CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS. In an old second-hand bookshop in London, an old man sat reading Gibbon's History of Rome. He did not put dov/n his book when the post- mstn brought him a letter. He just glanced indifferently at the letter, and impatiently a.h the postman. Zerviah Holme did not like to be interrupted when he was reading Gibbon ; and as he was always reading ^Gibbon, an interrup- tion was always regarded by him as an insult. About two hours afterwards, he opened the letter, and learnt that his niece, Bernardine, had arrived safely in Petershof, and that she intended to get better and come home, strong. He tore up the letter, and instinctively turned 6 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. to the photograph on the mantelpiece. It was the picture of a face young and yet old, sad and yet with possibilities of merriment, thin and drawn and almost wrinkled, and with piercing eyes which, even in the dull lifelessness of the photograph, seemed to be burning themselves away. Not a pleasing nor a good face; yet intensely pathetic because of its undisguised harassment. Zerviah looked at it for a moment. " She has never been much to either of us," he said to himself " And yet, when Malvina was^live, I used to think that sh6 was hard on Bernardine. I believe I said so once or twice. But Malvina had her own way of looking at things. Well, that is over now." , He then,, with characteristic speed, dismissed all thoughts which did not relate to Roman History ; and the remembrance of Malvina, his wife, and Bernardine, his niece, took up an accustomed position in the background of his mind. Bernardine had suffered a cheerless childhood in which dolls and toys took no leading part CONTAINS A FEIV DETAILS. ? She had no affection to bestow on any doll, nor any woolly lamb, nor apparently on any human person ; unless, perhaps, there was the possibility of'a friendly inclination towards Uncle Zerviah, who would not have understood the value of any deeper feeling, and did not therefore call the child cold-hearted and unresponsive, as he might well have done. This she certamly was, judged by the standard of other children ; but then no softening influ- ences had been at work durinor her tenderest years. Aunt Malvina knew as much about sympathy as she did about the properties of an ellipse , and even the fairies had failed to win little Bernardino. At first they tried with loving patience what they might do for her ; they came out of their books, and danced and sang to her, and whispered sweet stories to her, at twilight, the fairies' own time. But she would have none of them, for all their gentle persuasion. So they ^gave up trying to please her, and left her as they had found her, loveless. What can be said of a childhood which even the fairies have failed to touch with the warm glow of affection ? 8 $mPS THAT PASS JN THE NIGHT. Sucli a little restless spirit, striving to express, itself now in tliis direction, now in that; yet always actuated by the same constant force, the. desire for work. Bernardine seemed to have no special wish to be useful to others ; she seemed -just to have a natural tendency to work, even as others have a natural tendency to play. She was always in earnest ; life for little Bernardine meant something serious. Then the years went by. She grew up and filled her life with many interests and ambitions. She was at least a worker, if nothing else ; she had always been a diligent scholar, and now she took her place as an able teacher. She was self-reUant, and,* perhaps, somewhat conceited. But, at least, Bernardine the young woman had learnt something which Bernardine the young child had not been able to learn : she learnt how to smile. It took her about six and twenty years to learn ; still, some people take longer than that; in fact, many never learn. This is a brief siunmary of Bernardine Holme's past. Then, one day, when she was in the full swing CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS. 9 of her many engrossing occupations : teaching, writing articles for newspapers, attending social- istic meetings, and taking part in political discussions — she was essentially a " modern product," this Bernardino — one day she fell ill. She lingered in London for some time, and then she went to Petex'shof. CHAPTEE m. MBS. REFFOLD LEAENS HER LESSON. Peteeshof was a winter resort for consumptive patients, thougli, indeed, many people who simply needed the change of a bracing climate went there to spend a few months ; and came away wonderfully better for the mountain air. This was what Bernardino Holme hoped to do ; she was broken do^Ti in every' way, but it was thought that a prolonged stay in Petershof might help her back to a reasonable amount of health, or, at least, prevent her from, slipping into further decline. She had come alone, because she had no relations except that old uncle, and no money to pay any friend who jnio-ht have been \s-illing to come wi^h her. But if&S. FEFfOLD LEARNS HER LESSOy. tl she probabljl^ed very little," and the monmig afrer her arrival, she strolled out by herself investigating the place where she was about to spend six months. She was 6ta^z' i: herself along, when she met the Disagreeab-e T I r. She stopped him. He was not accusicr.ei ::' be stopped by any one, and he looked latl^er astonished. " You were not very cheering last night," she said to him. '•' I believe I am nd generally considered to be lively," he answered, as he kncckri the sncvr off his boot '•' StiU, I am sorry I spoke to j^ou as I did," she went on frankly. " It was foolish of me to mind what you said." He made no reference to his own remark, and was passing on his way again, when he turned back and walked with her. "I have been here nearly seven years" he said, and there was a ring of sadness in his voice as he spoke, whicli he immediately cor- rected. " K you want to know anything about the place, I can teU j-ou. If you are able to 1? Sa/PS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. walk, I can show you some lovely spots, where you will not be bothered with people. 1 can take you to a snow fairy-land. If you are sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig- the snow away, you will find the tiny bud nestling in theu" white nursery. If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you' may always see the great moun- tains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me. You are not too ill but that they may be a happmess to you also." " Nothing can be much of a happiness to me," she said, half to herself, and her lips quivered. "I have had to give up so much : all my work, all my ambitions." " You are not the only one who has had to do that," he said sharply. " Why make a fuss? Things arrange themselves, and eventually we adjust ourselves to the new arrangement. A great deal of caring and grieving, phase one; still more caring and grieving, phase two ; less caring and grieving, phase three ; no further feeling whatsoever, phase four. Mercifully I am at MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS HER LESSON. 13 phase four. You are at phase one. Make a quick journey over the stages." He turned and left her, and she strolled along, thinking of his words, wondering how long it would take her to arrive at his indifference. She had always looked upon indifference as paralysis of the soul, and paralysis meant death, nay, was worse than death. And here was this man, who had obviously suffered both mentally and physically, telling her that the only sensible course was to learn not to care. How could she learn not to care ^ All her life long she had studied and worked and cultivated hei'self in every direction in the hope of being able to take a high place in literature, or, in any case, to do something in life distinctly better than what other people did. When everything was coming near to her grasp, when there seemed a fair chance of realizing her ambitions, she had suddenly fallen iH, broken up so entirely in every way, that those who knew her when she ' was well, could scarcely recognize her now that she was ill. The doctors spoke of an over- rtraiued nervous system : ' the pestilence of 14 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. these modern days ; they spoke of rest, change of work and scene, bracing air. She might regain her vitahty ; she might not. Those who had played themselves out must pay the penalty. She was thinking of her whole history, pitying herself profoundly, coming to the conclusion, after ti*ue human fashion, that she was the worst-used person on earth, and that no one but herself knew what disappointed ambitions were ; she was thinking of all this, and looking profoundly miserable and martyr-hke, when some one called her by her name. She looked round and saw one of the English ladies belonging to the Kurhaus ; Bernardine had noticed her the previous night. She seemed in capital spirits, and had three or four admirers waiting on her very words. She was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a superb fur-trimmed cloak, a woman of splendid bearing and address. Bernardine looked a contemptible little piece of humanity beside her. Some such impression conveyed itself to the two men who were walking with Mrs. Reflfold. They looked at the one woman, and then at the other, and smiled at each otheri as men do smile on such occasions, MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS HER LESSON. 15 "I am gcini^ to speak to this little thing," Mrs. Reffold had said to her two companions before they came near Bernardine. " I must find out who she is, and where she comes from. And, fancy, she has come quite alone. I have inquired. How hopelessly out of fashion she dresses. And what a hat 1 " " I should not take the trouble to speak to her," said one of the men. " She may fasten herself on to you. You know what a -bore that is." " Oh, I can easily snub any one if I wish," replied Mrs. Reffold, rather disdainfully. So she hastened up to Bernardine, and held out her well-gloved hand. " I had not a chance of speaking to you last night. Miss Holme," she said. " You retired so early. I hope you have rested ,after your journey. You seemed quite worn out." " Thai^ you," said Bernardine, looking ad- miringly at the beautiful woman, and envying her, just as all plain women envy their hand- Bome sisters. " You are not alone, I suppose ? " continued Mrs. RefFold, le SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. ** Yes, quite alone," answered Bernard ine. "" But you are evidently acquainted with Mr. AUitsen, your neighbour at table." said 'Mss. Reffold ; "so you will not feel quite lonely here. It is a great advantage to have a friend at a place like this." "I never saw him before last night," said Bernardino. " Is it possible ? " said Mrs. Reffold, in her pleasantest voice. " Then you have made a triumph of the Disagreeable Man. He very rarely deigns to talk with any of us. He does not even appear to see us. He sits quietly and reads. It would be interesting to hear what his conversation is like. I should be quite amused to know what you did talk about." *' I dare say you would," said Bernardine quietly. Then Mrs. Reffold, wishing to screen her inquisitiveness, plunged into a description of Petershof life, speaking enthusiastically about everything, except the scenery, which she did not mention. After a time she ventured to begin once more taking soundings. But some- MRS. REFFOLD LcJlRNS BER LESSON. 17 how or other, those bright eyes of Bernardine, which looked at her so searchingly, made her a little nervous, and, perhaps, a little indiscreet. " Your father will miss you, she said tentatively. ." I should think probably not," answered Ber- nardino. " One is not easily missed, you know." \There was a twinkle in Bernardino's eye as she ^dded, "He is probably occupied with other (things." ^." What is your father ? " asked Mrs. Eeffold, in her most coaxing tones. "I don't know what he is now," answered Bernardine placidly. " But he was a genius. He is dead." Mrs. Reffold gave a slight start, for she began to feel that this insignificant little person was making fun of her. This would never do, and before witnesses too. So she gathered together her best resources and said : " Dear me, how very unfortunate : a genius too. Death is indeed cruel. And here one sees so much of it, that unless one learns to steel one's heart, one becomes melancholy. Ah, it isf f8 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. indeed sad. to see all this suffering!" (Mrs. Reffold herself had quite succeeded in steeling her heart against her own '^invalid husband.) She then gave an account of several bad cases of cohsumptlon, not forgetting to mention two instances of suicide which had lately taken place in Petershof. ** One gentleman was a !K.ussian,'* she said. " Fancy coming all the way from Hussia to this little out-of-the-world .place ! But people' come from the uttermost ends of the earth, though of course there are -many Londoners here. I suppose . you are from London ? " " I am not living in London . now," said Bernardino cautiously. " But you know it, without doubt," continued Mrs. Reffold. " There are several Kensington people here. You may meet some friends ; indeed* in our hotel there are two or three families from Lexham Gardens." Bernardino "smiled a little viciously ; lookjd first at Mrs. Beffold's two companions with an> amused sort of indulgence, and then at the lady AlJiS. REFFOLD LEARNS HER LESSON. 19 hetsejf. She paused a moment, and then said: "Have you asked all the questions. you wish to ask? And, if so, may I ask one of you ? Where does one get the best tea ? " Mrs, Heffold gave an inward gasj^, hut pointed gracefully to a small confectionery shop on the other side of the road. Mrs. Ileffold did every- thing gracefully. Bernardine thanked her, crossed the road, and passed into the shop. " Now I have taught her a lesson not to interfere with me," said Bernardine to herself. " How heautiful she is." Mrs. KefFold and her two companions went silently on their way. At last the silence was broken. " Well, I'm blessed ! " said the taller of the two, lighting a cigar. " So am I," said the other, lighting his cigar too. "Those are precisely rriy own feelings," remarked Mrs. Reffold. But she had learnt her lesson. n 2 CHAPTER IV. CONCERNING WARLI AND MARIE Warli, the little hunchback postman, a cheery soul, came whistling up the Kurhaus stairs, carrying with him that precious parcel of regis- tered letters, which gave him the position of being the most important person in Petershof. He was a linguist, too, was Warli, and could speak broken English in a most fascinating way, agi-eeable to every one, but intelligible only to himself. Well, he came whistling up the stairs, when he heard Mane's blithe voice humming her favourite spinning-song. Ei, Ei ! " he said to himself; "Marie is in a good, temper to-day. I will give her a call as I pass." CONCERNING IVARLI AND MARIE. 21 He arranged his neckerchief and smoothed his curls ; and when he reached the end of the landing, he paused outside a little glass-door, and, all unobserved, watched Marie in her pantry cleaning the candlesticks and lamps. Marie heard a knock, and, looking up from her work, saw Warli. " Good day, Warli," she said, glancing hur- riedly at a tiny broken mirror suspended on the wall. " I suppose you have a letter for me. How delightful ! " " Never mind about the letter just now," he said, waving his hand as thousfh wishing to dismiss the subject. " How nice to hear you singing so sweetly, Marie ! Dear me, in the old days at Grlisch, how often I have heard that song of the spinning-wheels. You have forgotten the old days, Marie, though you remember the song." " Give me my letter, Warli, and go about your work," said Marie, pretending to be impatient. But all the same her eyes looked extremely friendly. There was something very winning about the hunchback's face. 22 SHIi S THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. " Ah, ah ! Marie," he said, shaking his curly head ; "I know how it is with you : you" only like people in fine binding. They have not always fine hearts," " What nonsense you talk, Wiirli ! " said Mane. " There, just hand me the oil-can. You can fill this lamp for me. Not too full, you goose ! And this one also ; ah, you're letting the oil trickle down ! Why, you're not fit for anything except carrying letters ! Here, give me my letter." " What pretty flowers," said Wiirli. " Now if there is one thing I do like, it is a flower. Can you spare me one, Marie ? Put one in niy button-hole, do ! " "You are a nuisance this afternoon," said Marie, smiling and pinning a flower on Warli's blue coat. Just then a bell rang violently. "" Those Portuguese ladies will drive me quite mad," said Marie. " They always ring just when I am enjoying myself." "When you are enjoying yourself!" said Warli triumphantly. '' Of course," returned Marie ; " I always do enjoy cleaning the od-lamps ; I always did I " CONCERNING WARLI AND MARIE, 23 " All, I'd forgotten the oil-lamps ! " said Warli. " And so had I ! " laughed Marie, " Na, na„ there goes that bell again! Won't they be angry ! "Won't they scold at me ! Here, Warli, . give me my letter, and I'll be off." " I never told you I had any letter for you," remarked Warli. " It was entirely your own idea. Good afternoon, Friiulein Marie." The Portuguese ladies' bell rang again, still more passionately this time ; but Marie did not seem to hear nor care. She wished to be revenged on that impudent postman. She went to the top of the stairs and .called after Wiirli in her most coaxing tones '. '-X)o step down one moment ; I want to show you something ! " "I must deliver the registered letters," said Wiirli, with official haughtiness. ''I have- already wasted too much of my time." "Won't you' waste a few more minutes on me? "pleaded Marie pathetically. "It is not often I see you now," Warli came down again, looking very happy. 24 SH}rS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. " I want to show you such a beautiful photo- graph I've had taken," said Marie. " Ach, it is beautiful ! " " You must give one to me," said Wiirli eagerly. " Oh, I can't do that," replied Marie, as she opened the drawer and took out a small packet. " It was a present to me from the Polish gentle man himself He saw me the other day here in the pantry. I was so tired, and I had fallen asleep, with my broom, just as you see me here. So he made a photogi^aph of me. He admires me vei'y much. Isn't it nice ? and isn't the Polish gentleman clever ? and isn't it nice to have so much attention paid to one? Oh, there's that horrid bell again ! Good afternoon, Herr Warli. That is all I have to say to you, thank you." Warli's feelings towards the Polish gentleman were not of the friendliest that day. CHAPTER V. THE DISAGREEABLE UAif. Robert Allitsen told Bernardine that she was not likely to be on friendly terms with the English people in the Kurhaus. " They will not care about you, and you will not care about the foreigners. So you will thus be thrown on your c "zi resources, just as I was ■ hen I came." ■' I cannot say that I have any resources," Jjcrnardine answered. " I don't feel well enough to try to do any writing, or else it would be delightful to have the uninterrupted leisure." So she had probably told him a little about her life and occupation ; although it was not likely that she would have given him any serious 2fi SHirS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. confidences. Still, people are often surprisingly frank about themselves, even those who pride themselves upon being the most reticent mortals in the world. " Biit now, having the leisure," she continued, " I have not the brains." " I never knewauv writer -who had," said the Disagreeable Man grimly. " Perhaps your experience has been limited," she suggested. " Why don't you read ? " he said. " There Is a good library here. It contains all the books we don't want to read." " I am tired of reading," Bernardlne said. "I seem to have been reading all my life. My uncle, with whom I live, keeps a second-hand book-shop, and ever since I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. They have not done me much good, -nor any one else either." " No, probably not," he said. " But now that you have left off reading, you will have a chance of learning something, if you live long enough. It is wonderful how much one does THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. 27 leam when one does not read. It is almost awful. If you don't care about reading now, why do you not occupy youi'self with cheese- mites ? " " I do not feel drawn towards cheese-mites." " Perhaps not, at first ; but all the same they form a subject which is very engaging. - Or any branch of bacteriology." "Well, if you were to lend me your micro- scope, perhaps I might begin." " I could not do that," he answered quickly. " I never lend my things." " No, I did not suppose you would," she said, " I knew I was safe in making the suggestion." " You are rather quick of perception in spite of all your book reading," he said. " Yes, you are quite right. I am selfish. I dislike lending ray things, and I dislike spending my money except on myself. If you have the misfortune to linger on as I do, you will know that it is perfectly legitimate to be selfish in small things, if one has made the one areat sacrifice." " And what may that be ? " She asked so eagerly that he looked at her. 23 S///rS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. and then saw how worn and thred her face was ; and the words which he was uitending to speak, died on his hps. " Look at those asses of people on toboggans," he said brusquely. " Could you manage to enjoy yourself in that way % That might do you good." '' Yes," she said ; " but it would not be any pleasure to me," She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road. And the Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable. He had lived nearly seven years at Petershof, and, like many others, was obliged to continue staymg there if he wished to continue staying in this planet. It was not probable that he had any wish to prolong his frail existence, but he did his duty to his mother by conserving his life ; and this feeble flame of duty and affection was the only lingering bit of warmth in a heart frozen almost by ill heaith and disappointed ambitions. The moralistc tell us that sufferinr THE DISAGREEABLE HI APT. 59 ennobles, and that a right acceptation of hindrances goes towards forming a beautiful character. But this result must largely depend on the original character : certainly, in the case of Robert Allitsen, suffering had not ennobled his mind, nor disappointment sweetened his disposition. His title of " Disagreeable Man " had been fairly earned, and he hugged it to himself with a triumphant secret satisfac- tion. There were some people in Petershof who were inclined to believe certain absurd rumours about his alleged kindness. It was said that on more than one occasion he had nursed the suffering and the dying in sad Petershof, and, with all the sorrowful tenderness worthy of a loving mother, had helped them to take their leave of life. But these were only rumours, and there was nothing in Robert Allitsen's ordinary bearing to justify such talk. So the foolish people who, for the sake of making themselves peculiar, revived these unlikely fictions, were speedily ridiculed and reduced to silence. And the DisaOTceable Man remained 30 Sinrs THAT PASS m THE NIGHT. the Disagreeable Man, with a clean record for unamiability. He lived a life apart from others. Most of his time was occupied in photogr-aphy, or in the use and study of the microscope, or in chemistry. His photographs were considered to be most beautiful. Not that he showed them specially to any one ; but he generally sent a specimen of his work to the Monthly Photograph Port- folio, and hence it was that people learned to know of his skill. He might be seen any fine day trudging along in company with his photo- graphic apparatus, and a desolate dog, who looked almost as cheerless as his chosen comrade. Neither the one took any notice of the other; Allitsen was no more genial to the dog than he was to the Kurhaus guests; the dog was no more demonstrative to 'Hobert Allitsen than he •was to any one in Petershof, Still, they were " something " to each other : that unexplainable " something " which has to explain almost every kind of attachment. He had no friends In Petershof, and appar- ,€ntly had no friends anywhere. No one wrot^ THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. 81 to him, except his old mother ; the papers which were sent to him came from a stationer's. He read all during meal-time. But now and again he. spoke a few words with Bernardine •Holme, whose place was next to him. It never occurred to him to say good morning, nor to give a greeting of any kind, nor to show a courtesy. One day during lunch, however, he did take the trouble to stoop and pick up Bernardine Holme's shawl, which jiad fallen for the third time to the ground. "I never s^w a female wear a sliawl more carelessly than you," he said. "You. don't, seem to know anything about it." His manner was always gruff. Every one complained of him. Every one always had complained of him. He had never been heard to laugh. Once or twice he had been seen to smile on occasions when people talked confi- dently of recovering their health. It was a beautiful smile worthy of a better cause. It was a smile which made one pause to wonder what could have been the origmal disposition of the Disagreeable Man before ill -health had cut 32 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT, him oflP from the affairs of active life. Was he happy or unhappy ? It was not known. He gave no sign of either the one state or the other. He always looked very ill, but he did not seem to get worse. He had never been known to make the faintest allusion to his own health. He never " smoked " his thermometer in public ; and this was the more remarkable in an hotel where people would even leave off a conver- sation and say : " Excuse me, Sir or Madam, I must now take my temperature. We will resume the topic in a few minutes." He never lent any papers or books ; and he never borrowed any. He had a room at the top of the hotel, and he lived his life, amongst his chemistry bottles, his scientific books, his microscope, and his camera. He never sat in any of the hotel drawing-rooms. There was nothing striking nor eccentric about his appearance. He was neither ugly nor good-looking, neither tall nor short, neither fair nor dark. He was thin and frail, and rather bent. But that might be the description of any one in Petershof There was THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. 33 nothing pathetic about him, no suggestion even of poetry, which gives a reverence to suffering, whether mental or physical. As there was no expression on his face, so also there was no expression m his eyes : no distant longing, no far-off fixedness ; nothing, indeed, to awaken sad sympa,thy. The only positive thing about him was his rudeness. Was it natural or cultivated ? No one in Petershof could say. He had always been as he was ; and there was no reason to suppose that he would ever be different. He was, in fact, like the glacier of which he had such a fine view from his room; like the glacier, an unchanging feature of the neigh- bourhood. No one loved it better than the Disagreeable Man did ; he watched the sunlight on it, now- pale golden, now fiery red. He loved the sky, the dull grey, or the bright blue. He loved the snow forests, and the snow-girt streams, and the ice cathedrals, and the great ' firs patient beneath their snow - burden. He loved the frozen ' waterfalls, and the costly 34 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. diamonds in the snow. He knew, too, .where the flowers nestled in their white nursery. He was, indeed, an authority on Alpine botany. The same tender hands which plucked the flowers in the spring-time, dis- sected them and laid them bare beneath the microscope. But he did not love them the less for that. Were these pursuits a comfort to him ? Did they help him to forj^et that there was a time when he, too, was burninj^ with ambition to distinguish himself, and be one of the marked men of the age ? Who could say ? CHAPTER VI. THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE. Countless ages ago a Traveller, much worn with journeying, climbed up the last bit of rough road which led to the summit of a high mountain. There was a temple on that moun- tain. And the Traveller had vowed that he would reach it before death prevented him. He knew the journey was long, and the road rough. He knew that the mountain was the most difficult of ascent of that mountain chain, called " The Ideals." But he had a strongly- hoping heart and a sure foot. He lost all sense of time, but he never lost the feeling of hope. " Even if I faint by the way-side," he said tc 36 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. himself, "and am not able to reach the summit, still it is something to be on the road which leads to the High Ideals. " That was how he comforted himself when he was weary. He never lost more hope than that ; and surely that was little enough. And now he had reached the temple.' He rang the bell, and an old white-haired man opened the gate. He smiled sadly when he saw the Traveller. *^ And yet another one" he murmured, " " What does it all mean ? " The Traveller did not hear what he mur- mured. " Old white-haired man," he said, "tell me ; and so I have come at last to the wonderful Temple of Knowledge. I have been journeying hither all my life. Ah, but it is hard work climbing up to the Ideals." The old man touched the Traveller on the arm. " Listen," he said gently. "This is not the Temple of Knowledge. And the Ideals are not a chain of mountains ; they are a stretch of ,plains, and the Temple of Knowledge i§ in tbeir THE TRA VELLER AND THE TEMPLE. 87 centre. You have come the wrong road. Alas, poor Traveller ! " The light in the Traveller's eyes had faded. The hope in his heart died. And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff. " Can one rest here \ " he asked wearily., " No." " Is there a way down the other side of these mountairfs l " " No." " What are these mountains called ? '* " They have no name." " And the temple — how do you call the temple ? " " It has no name." " Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts," said the Traveller." And he "turned and went. But_the old white-haired man followed him. " Brother," he said, "you are not the first to come here, but you may be the last. Go back to the plains, and tell the dwellers in the plains .that the Temple of True Knowledge Is in their 38 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. very midst ; any one may enter it who chooses ; the gate is not even closed, -The Temple has always been in the plains, m the very heart of life, and work, and daily effort. The philosopher may enter, the stone-breaker may enter. You must have passed it every day of your life ; a plain, venei'able building, unlike your glorious cathedrals." " I have seen the children playing near it," said the Traveller. " When I was a child I used to play there. Ah, if I had only known ! Well, the past is the past." He - would have rested against a huge stone, but that the old white-haired man prevented him. " Do not rest," he said. " If you once rest there, you will not rise^ again. When 'you once rest, you will know how weary you are." " I have no wish to go farther," said the Traveller. " My journey is done ; it may have been in the wrong direction, but still it is done." "Nay, do not linger here," urged the old THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE. S9 man. "Eetrace your steps. Though you are broken-hearted yourself, you may save others from breaking their hearts. Those whom you meet on this road, you can turn back. Those who are but starting in this direction you can bid pause and consider how mad it is to suppose that the Temple of True Knowledge should have been built on an isolated and dangerous mountain. Tell them that although God seems hard, He is not as hard as all that. Tell them that the Ideals are not a mountain range, but their own plains, where their great cities are built, and where the corn gi'ows, and where men and women are toiling, sometimes in sorrow and sometimes in joy." " I will go," said tbe Traveller. And he started. But he had grown old and weary. And the journey was long ; and the retracing of one's steps is more toilsome than the tracing of them. The ascent, v/ith all the vigour and hope of life to help him, had been difficult enough ; the descent, with no vigour and no hope to help him, was almost impossible. 40 SfflFS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT So that it was not probable that the TraveHer lived to reach the plains. But whether he. reached them or not, still he had started And not many Travellers do that. CHAPTER VII. BERNAEDINE. The crisp mountain air and the warm sunshine began slowly to have their effect on Bernardine, in spite of the Disagreeable Man's verdict. She still looked singularly lifeless, and appeared to drag herself about with painful effort ; but the place suited her, and she enjoyed sitting in the sun listening to the music which was played by a scratchy string band. Some of the Kur- haus guests, seeing that she was alone and ailing, made some attempts to be kindly to her. She always seemed astonished that people should concern themselves about her; whatever her faults were, it never struck her that she might be of any impoitance to others, however 43 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. important slie miglit be to herself. She was grateful for any little kindness which was shewn her ; but at first she kept very much to herself, talking chiefly with the Disagreeable Man, who, by the way, had surprised every one — but no one more than himself — by his un- wonted behaviour in bestowing even a fraction of his companionship on a Petershof human being. There was a great deal of curiosity about her, but no one ventured to question her since Mrs. Reflfold's defeat. Mrs. Reffold herself rather avoided her, having always a vague suspicion that Bernardino tried to make fun of her. But whether out of perversity or not, Bernardino never would be avoided by her, never let her pass by without a few v,^ords of conversation, and always went to her for infor- mation, much to the amusement of Mrs. Eeffold's faithful attendants. There was always a twinkle in Bernardino's eye when she spoke with Mrs, Beffold. She never fastened herself on to any one ; no one could say she intruded. As time went, on there was a vague sort of BERNARDINE. 43 feeling that she did not intrude enough..? She was ready to speak if any one cai'ed to speak with her, but she never began a conversation except with Mrs, Keffold. When people did .talk to hei', they found her genial. Then the Bad face would smile kindly, and the sad eyes speak kind sympathy. Or some bit of fun would flash forth, and a peal of young laughter I'ing out. It seemed strange that such fun could come from her. Those who noticed her, said she appeared always to be thinkingi She was thinking and learning. Some few remarks roughly made by the Disagreeable Man had impressed her deeply. " You 'have come to a new world," he said. '-* the world of suffering. You are in a fury because your career has been checked, and because you have been put on the shelf; you, of all people. Now you will learn how many quite as able as yourself, and abler, have been put on the shelf too, and have to stay there. You are only a pupil in suffering. What about the professors ? If your wonderful wisdom has lefife 44 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NICHT. you with any sense at all, look about you and learn." So she was looking, and thinking, and learn- ing. And as the days went by, perhaps, a. softer light came into her eyes. All her life long, her standard of judging people had been an intellectual standard, or an artistic standard : what people had done with outward and visible signs ; how far they had contributed to thought ; how far they , had influenced any great movement, or originated it ; how much of a benefit they had been to their century or their country ; how much social or political activity, how much educational energy they had devoted to the pi'essing need of the times She was undoubtedly a clever, cultured young woman ; the great work of her life had been self-cultui-e. To know and understand, she had spai'ed neither herself nor any one else. To know, and to use her acquired knowledge intellectually as teacher and, perhaps, too, as writer, had been the great aim of her -life. Everything that furthered this aim won her 8ERNARDINE. 45 instant attention. It never struck her that she was selfish. One does not think of that until the great check comes. One goes on, and would go on. But a barrier rises up. Then, finding one can advance no further, one turns round ; and what does one see ? Bernardine saw that she had come a long journey. She saw what the Traveller saw. That was all she saw at first. Then she remembered that she had done, the journey entirely for her own sake. Perhaps it might not have looked so dreary if it had been under- taken for some one else. She had claimed nothing of any one ; she had given nothing to any one. She had simply taken her life in her own hands and made what she could of it. What had she made of it ? Many women asked for riches, for position, for influence and authority and admiration. She had only asked to be able to work. It seemed little eno.ugh to ask. Ihat she asked so little placed her, so she thought, apart from the common herd of eager askers. To be cut off from active life and earnest work 46 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. was a possibility which never occurred to her. It never crossed her mind that in asking for the one thing for which she longed, she was really asking for the greatest thing. Now, in the hour of her enfeeblement, and in the hour of the bitterness of her heart, she still prided herself upon wanting so little, " It seems so little to ask," she cried to herr self time after time. " I only want to be able to do a few strokes of work. I would be content now to do so little, if only I might do some. The laziest day-labourer on the road would laugh at the small amount of work which would content me now." She told the Disagreeable Man that one day. " So you think you are moderate in your demands," he said to her. " You are a most amusing young woman. You are so perfectly unconscious how exacting you really are. For. after all, what is it you want? You want' to have that wonderful brain of youi-s restored, so that you may begin to teach, and, perhaps, write a book. Well, to repeat my former BERNARDINE. 47 words : you ave still at phase one, and you are lonere was a time w'hen I felt Hke that; but now I have learnt some- thing 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 vnceasing grief at its withdrawal. There is no ii.d';;nity in this 1.7S S///rS THAT PASS IN THE NICIIT. nor any trace of weakmindedness in our rest- less craving to know about the Hereafter, and the possibiUties 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 arc weightier questions : they say so, but do they think so? Do we want to know first r.nd foremost whether we shall do our work better elsewhere : whether we shall be endowed with more wisdom : wliether, as poor I\Ir. Reftbld said, we shall be glad to behave less like curs, and more like heroes ? These questions come in, but they can be put aside. Tlie other q\iestion can never be put on one side. If that v/ere to become possible, it would only be so because the human heart had lost the best part of it-self, its own humanity. We shall ao on buildinir 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 othei people building their bridges. We shall imitate, or criticise, or- condemn. But as tiraj. A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES. 179 goes on, we sliall learn not to interfere, we sliall know that one bridge is probably as good a3 the other ; and that the greatest value of tliem all has been in the building of them. It doos 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 i^estirig.'' He shrugged his shouldev.s, 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 neariiig 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. N 2 ISO SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. " 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 thouglit 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 tempor- ary help, I should "dome to you : so you see if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you." A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES. 181 A sirQe 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 XVIIT. A BETROTHAL. He had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his answer. It Wcis 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 indifterent 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 nov/ for him to delay a single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with couraofe. i A BETROTHAL. 183 Warli's brain was muddled that day. He wlio 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 spoldings which would have unnerved a stronger person than the little hunchback postman. In fact, he ceased to caro how he gave out the letter's : 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 tf 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 bell- ringer, and on her return found Wiirli 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 IS4 SmrS THAT PASS L\' THE NIC II T. off again. She came back with another letter in her hand, and found Wiirli sitting in her pantry. "The wrong letter left at No. 54," she said, ," aiid Madame in a horrid temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Wiirh ! Can't you read ? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I'll sort them." Wiirli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead. " I can't read to-day, Marie," he said; " some- thing 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 v/as polishing some water-bottles with more diligence than Avas usual or even ■necessary. •' But I am the one who loves you, Marie- chen,'" the little postman said. " I have A BETROTHAL. )89 always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not mucla 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 waterdjottles. Tlien slie held them up to the light to admire theii' unwonted cleanness. " I don't [)lead for myself," continued Wiirli. "If you don't love me, that is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will mari-y me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all." Marie put down the water-bottles, and tuii.ed to Warli. " You have been a loner time in tellinof tne " 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 wdth kisses ; " you love some one else — you are already betrothed ? And now it's too latej and you love some one else ! " " I never said I loved some one else," Mario replied ; " I only said it was too late. Why, it tS8 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps ar(» 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 Wiirli, snatching the can out of her hands. " What do I want to know about the oil in the can? 1 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 >^aor-riest soul in all Switzerland." " Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most x^eiancholy tone of voice; "the truth and nothing else ? Well, Warh, if you must know . . , . how I grieve to hurt you . , . ." Warli'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 Wiirli embracing his ■ betrothed. A DF.TROTIIAL. 187 *' I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But directly afterward' he came back. " The matron has just come upstairs," he said And he hurried away. CHAPTER XIX. " SHITS 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 ov/n 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, "SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING" 1S9 like England hsvself: the haven of other nation's offscouring-s„ 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 wors^, 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 off 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 legiti- mate excuse for immediate departure. Pretty Fraulein Mliiler 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 taidng such a prolonged 190 S///rS THAT PASS IN THE NICHT. holiday in Petershof. ' The httle French flanseuse and her poodle had left for Monte Carlo. M. Lichinsky and liis mother passed on to the Tyrol, where ]\Iadame would no doubt have plenty of opportunities for quarrellinf^ : or not finding' them, would certainly make them witiiout any delay, by this means keeping herself in good spirits and her son in bad health. There were some, too, v.dio had hurried off with- out paying their doctors : being of course those who had received the greatest attention, and wlio 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 acquaintiances had gone their "SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING." JOl several ways, after six months' constant inter- course and companionship, saying good-bye with the same indifTereuce as tliougli they were sayiog good-morning or good-afternoorr. This cold-heartedness struck Bernardine more than once, and she spoke of it to Robert Alhtsen. It was the day before her own depar- ture, and she had gone down with him to the restaurant, and sat sipping her coffee and making her compkaint. "Such indifference is astonishing, and it is sad too. I cannot understand it," she said. " That is because you are a goose," he rcphed, pouring out some more coffee for him- self, 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 tlic fact that most of us are very Httle interested in other people : they for us and we for them can spare only a small fraction of time and atten- tion. 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 un/ 192 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. mistalvable sign, given quite unconsciously by our friends, that we are after all nothinn- to them : we can be done without, put on one side, and forgotten when not present. Then, if we are foolish, we are Avounded by this discovery, and we draw back into ourselves. But if we are wise, we draw back into ourselves with- out 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,"i 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 ^ 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 1 would begin to clear away the weeds, but I have not "SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING." 193 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 ^.ccustomed, 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 o W4 SHIPS THAT PASS HI THE NIGHT. packing : tlie many pleasant hours were to count for nothing ; for nothing the little bits of fun, the little displays ftf temper and vexation, the snatches of serious talk, the contradictions, and all the petty detniis of six months' close com- panionship. He was not dif&rent from the others who had parted from her so lightly. No wonder, then, that he could sympathise with them. That last niglit at Petershof, Bernardino hardened her heart against the Disngi'eeable 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 *' SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING." 195 Tyrol," he explained. " I sKall 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 flinch- ing. He said good-bye to her at the foot of the staircase. It was the first time she had ever shakeii hands with hira. " 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 Bernardlne l^ffc Petershof. Only the concierge of the Kurhaus saw her off at the station. CHAPTER XX. A LOVE-LETTER. Two days after Bernardlne 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 bedioom 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 aa follows : "Little Comrade, little Playmate, I could not believe that you ^,vere really going. When you first said that you wo-oid soon be j4 LOVE-LETTER. 197 leaving, T 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 wei^e 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 103 SHIPS THA T PASS IN THE NIGHT. 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 aip only a ^''oung 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 Avhich 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 ivas 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 m_yself go. At least I have learnt A LOVE-LETTER. 199 what I knew nothing of before : now I under- stand 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 Lo 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 whodielped to cure you ? It ivas I. I have seen that often before. That is the one little bit of good I liave done m the world : I have helped 200 SHIPS THA T PASS IM THE NIGHT. 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 1 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 undis- turbed. 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. ButI am not sure about that. I believe that .... A LOVE-LETTER. 201 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 otheri^. 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. KwA 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, 202 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. my very own. I have been waitincr all my llf^ for you ; and I have given you my heart entire. If you only knew that, you could not call yourself lonely any more. If an^ one was ever loved, it is you, dear heart. "Do you remember how those peasants at the Gasthaus thought we were betrothed 1 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 nevfer 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 A LOVE-LETTE/i. 203 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. WoulcJ 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 prayei", 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 wc 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 losmg 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. 201 smrS THA T PASS IN THE NIGHT. " But I do love you, no one can take that from nie : 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. END OF PAllT T. PART II. CHAPTER L THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. It was now moi'e 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 belong- ings, and sat in the little inner room reading as usual Gibbon's " History of Rome." Customers might please themselves aboy,t coming : Zerviah Holme had never cared about amassing money, and now he cared even less tlian before. A frugal breakfast, a frugal dinner, a box full of :Ofi SHIPS THAT PASS W THE NIGHT. fiiiaff, and a shelf full of Gibbon were the oli 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 breg^kfast, 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, «nd 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 THE DUSTING OF THn BOOKS. 207 that she must go away, he looked at, lier 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 Ipoked 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 under- stand what she meant. She hud never been 208 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. very near to h[m, and he had never been very near to her. He had taken but httle 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 resolu- tions 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 reo-ret her. Uncle Zerviah was here still : O 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 tHE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. 20!) time. For the most trylnof 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 : tliut which we have longed to do, and about wliich we now care nothing. So Bernardino dusted books, and sometimes sold them All the time she thought of the Disao-reeable 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 tlie whole she was bright; but she found things difficult. She had lost her old enthusiasms, and nothing yet had taken their {jjace. She went back to the circle of her ucquaintances, 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. 210 SfflPS TIJAT PASS W THE NIGHT, She thought them hard, the women especially : they thought her weak. They were dis- appointed 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 Bernardino felt it as such. But she had changed, and she her- self perceived it in many ways. It was not that she was necessarily better, but that she was different ; probably more human, and pro- bably less self-confident. She had lived :n a world of books, and she had burst througlrthat 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 th^em- THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. £11 selves. And tliey were not scholars. They knew. 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 r 2 Hi SI/IPS THA T PASS IN THE WIGHT. man was pleased : lie loved his books, tho\igb 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 Bhe 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 vrould have been a gi^eat 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 forgot- ten, 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 Avhen 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, but Bernardino flushed with pleasure, THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. 413 ** I wish I had been more to ydu all these years," she said gently. He did not quite take tha,t in :, and returned hastily to Gibbon. Then they began to stroll out together. They had nothing to talk about : he was not inter- ested 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 Ave 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, sti'ong, 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 214 SfflPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. approval. He began to know and recoo^nize them. He was almost like a child in his new- found 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 sub- scribe to the fund, even if we have to sell a book." He did not like to sell his books : ho parted with them painfully, as some people part with their illusions. Bernardino bought a paper for 'herself every day ; but one evening she camo in without one. She had been seeing after some teaching, and .had without aiiy difficulty succeeded in getting some temporary li^ht work at one of the hicrh 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 the Daily News. "I don't remember what you like, but will this do ? " he asked. THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS. 2l5 He was quite proud of himself for showing her this atteution, almost as proud as the Disarp-ecable Man, when he did something kind and thoughtful. Bernardine thouirht 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 : qnd she read that Robert AUitsen'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 tot wait. And some day I shall be free. And then . . . ." CHAPTER Ii: BERNARDINE BEGINS HER COOK. After the •announcement of Mi's. Allitsen's death, Bernardlne lived in a misery of suspense. •Every day she scanned the obituary, fearing to find the record of another death, fearinc^ and yet wishing to know. The Disacrreeable Man had yearned for his freedom these many years, and now he vi^as 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 befran to write to him. Then she i^emembered that after all he had cared nothing for her corbpanionship. He would not wish to hear from her. ,, And besides, what had she to say to him'? BEKNARDINE BEGINS HEK BOOK'. 217 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 book- shop, 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 pea suddenly, and wrote the foUowing prologue. CHAPTER in. FAILUBE AND SUCCESS : A TROLOGUB. t'AlLURE and Success passed away from Earth, t\nd found themselves in a Foreign Land. Success still Avore her laurel-wreath which she had won on Earth, There was a look of ease about her whole appearance ; and there was a snaile of pleasure and satisfaction on Ker 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 witli the Sovereign of FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE. 8I| the Foreign Land. An old grey-haired mAh came to them and asked their names. " I am Success," said Success, advanAng a step forward, and smiling at him, and pointing to her laurel-wreath. He shook his head. " Ah," he said, " do. not he too confident. Very often things go hy opposites in this Idnd. \Vhat 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 cur 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 220 SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. 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. *' CtDnie,.novv, Success," he said to her : " let me lead you into the Presence-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 Btrength returned. " But what of her ? " she asked regretfully of the old gi'ey-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^Glmmber. But the Sovereisfn said : FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE. 221 " The world needs you, dear and honoured worker. You know your real name : do not heed wliat 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 re- membrance^ of the Sovereign's words, and the gracious music of her Real Name. CHAPTER IV. THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM. The morning after Bernardine began hf r book, she and old Zerviah were sitting together in the shop. He had come from the httle 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 throufrh a lont? life, and must have passed througli many different experiences. Wasi there ever a time when you cared for people rather than books 1 " DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM. 2» " 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 married Malvina. 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 224 SHIPS THA T PASS JN THE NIGHT. 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 Bernaidine 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." Bernardlne 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." "1 know," Bemardine 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 finswered, smiling at' him. " You I'emember you told me I should be content ^o do that. DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP lilS FREEDOM. 225 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 aa 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 226 SflJPS THA T PASS IN THE NIGHT. . an enthusiasm. After about two hours I have lost it again." " Poor little child," he said tenderly. " I, too, know what that is. " But you icill get 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 book? has not sufficed ?" he said, scanning her curiously. " I wanted not to think of myself," Bernardino said. " 2\o\v that I have begun it, I shall enjoy going on with it. .1 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 in Petershof " " 1 shall not be going back to Petershof," he said, " Why should I go there now ? " DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM. 227 " For the same reason that jou 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 Bemardine — 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," 228 SmPS THA T PASS IN THE NIGHT. she continueil. " 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 thouf:^hts 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 DisagreeaT^le Man raised his eyes and looked at the little figiu'e 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 hia hand on hers. DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM., "n^ "I will come and see you tQ-monow," 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 Bernard ine 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 New Hospital : she had been knocked down by a waggon, and terribly injured. '* She will not recover," the Doctor said to 230 SffJPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. 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-moirow. 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 ininutes later, she made another sign as though she wished to speak Nurse Katharine bent nearer Then she whispered: '■' Tell the Disa£jreeablo Man to go back to the mountains, and begin to build his bridge: it must be strong and . . . ." Bernardine died. CHAPTER V. THE BUILDING OP THE BRIDOEL RoBEBT Allitsen came to the old book-shop to Bee 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 ** IJiave 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 ine so the very morning when you caime." Thfcii, with a tenderness which was almost 232 S/IiPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. foreign to him, ZerViah told Robert Allitsen how Bernardine had opened her heart to him. She had never lovqd any one before : but she had loved the Disagreeable Man. " T 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 conr THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE. 233 sclously 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 pasa. THE ENIX s THE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Santa Barbara THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST B/ STAMPED BELOW. 3 1205 02020 8896 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY A A 001 424 040 2