BERNARDINE PREACHES.
AFTER this, scarcely a day passed but Bernardine went to see Mr. Reffold.
The most inexperienced eye could have known that he was becoming rapidly
worse. Marie, the chambermaid, knew it, and spoke of it frequently to
Bernardine.
"The poor lonely fellow!" she said, time after time.
Every one, except Mrs. Reffold, seemed to recognize that Mr. Reffold's
days were numbered. Either she did not or would not understand. She made
no alteration in the disposal of her time: sledging parties and skating
picnics were the order of the day; she was thoroughly pleased with
herself, and received the attentions of her admirers as a matter of
course. The Petershof climate had got into her head; and it is a
well-known fact that this glorious air has the effect on some people of
banishing from their minds all inconvenient notions of duty and devotion,
and all memory of the special object of their sojourn in Petershof. The
coolness and calmness with which such people ignore their
responsibilities, or allow strangers to assume them, would be an
occasion for humour, if it were not an opportunity for indignation:
though indeed it would take a very exceptionally sober-minded spectator
not to get some fun out of the blissful self-satisfaction and
unconsciousness which characterize the most negligent of 'caretakers.'
Mrs. Reffold was not the only sinner in this respect. It would have been
interesting to get together a tea-party of invalids alone, and set the
ball rolling about the respective behaviours of their respective friends.
Not a pleasing chronicle: no very choice pages to add to the book of real
life; still, valuable items in their way, representative of the actual as
opposed to the ideal. In most instances there would have been ample
testimony to that cruel monster, known as Neglect.
Bernardine spoke once to the Disagreeable Man on this subject. She spoke
with indignation, and he answered with indifference, shrugging his
shoulders.
"These things occur," he said "It is not that they are worse here than
everywhere else; it is simply that they are together in an accumulated
mass, and, as such, strike us with tremendous force. I myself am
accustomed to these exhibitions of selfishness and neglect. I should be
astonished if they did not take place. Don't mix yourself up with
anything. If people are neglected, they _are_ neglected, and there is
the end of it. To imagine that you or I are going to do any good by
filling up the breach, is simply an insanity leading to unnecessarily
disagreeable consequences. I know you go to see Mr. Reffold. Take my
advice, and keep away."
"You speak like a Calvinist," she answered, rather ruffled, "with the
quintessence of self-protectiveness; and I don't believe you mean a
word you say."
"My dear young woman," he said, "we are not living in a poetry book
bound with gilt edges. We are living in a paper-backed volume of prose.
Be sensible. Don't ruffle yourself on account of other people. Don't
even trouble to criticize them; it is only a nuisance to yourself. All
this simply points back to my first suggestion: fill up your time with
some hobby, cheese-mites or the influenza bacillus, and then you will
be quite content to let people be neglected, lonely, and to die. You
will look upon it as an ordinary and natural process."
She waved her hand as though to stop him.
"There are days," she said, "when I can't bear to talk with you. And
this is one of them."
"I am sorry," he answered, quite gently for him. And he moved away from
her, and started for his usual lonely walk.
Bernardine turned home, intending to go to see Mr. Reffold. He had become
quite attached to her, and looked forward eagerly to her visits. He said
her voice was gentle and her manner quiet; there was no bustling vitality
about her to irritate his worn nerves. He was probably an empty-headed,
stupid fellow; but it was none the less sad to see him passing away.
He called her 'Little Brick.' He said that no other epithet suited her
so exactly. He was quite satisfied now that she was not paid for coming
to see him. As for the reading, no one could read the _Sporting and
Dramatic News_ and the _Era_ so well as Little Brick. Sometimes he
spoke with her about his wife, but only in general terms of bitterness,
and not always complainingly. She listened and said nothing.
"I'm a chap that wants very little," he said once. "Those who want
little, get nothing."
That was all he said, but Bernardine knew to whom he referred.
To-day, as Bernardine was on her way back to the Kurhaus, she was
thinking constantly of Mrs. Reffold, and wondering whether she ought to
be made to realize that her husband was becoming rapidly worse. Whilst
engrossed with this thought, a long train of sledges and toboggans
passed her. The sound of the bells and the noisy merriment made her look
up, and she saw beautiful Mrs. Reffold amongst the pleasure-seekers.
"If only I dared tell her now," said Bernardine to herself, "loudly and
before them all!"
Then a more sensible mood came over her. "After all, it is not my
affair," she said.
And the sledges passed away out of hearing.
When Bernardine sat with Mr. Reffold that afternoon she did not mention
that she had seen his wife. He coughed a great deal, and seemed to be
worse than usual, and complained of fever. But he liked to have her,
and would not hear of her going.
"Stay," he said. "It is not much of a pleasure to you, but it is a great
pleasure to me."
There was an anxious look on his face, such a look as people wear when
they wish to ask some question of great moment, but dare not begin.
At last he seemed to summon up courage.
"Little Brick," he said, in a weak low voice, "I have something on my
mind. You won't laugh, I know. You're not the sort. I know you're clever
and thoughtful, and all that; you could tell me more than all the
parsons put together. I know you're clever; my wife says so. She says
only a very clever woman would wear such boots and hats!"
Bernardine smiled.
"Well," she said kindly, "tell me."
"You must have thought a good deal, I suppose," he continued, "about
life and death, and that sort of thing. I've never thought at all. Does
it matter, Little Brick? It's too late now. I can't begin to think. But
speak to me; tell me what you think. Do you believe we get another
chance, and are glad to behave less like curs and brutes? Or is it all
ended in that lonely little churchyard here? I've never troubled about
these things before, but now I know I am so near that gloomy little
churchyard--well, it makes me wonder. As for the Bible, I never cared
to read it, I was never much of a reader, though I've got through two
or three firework novels and sporting stories. Does it matter, Little
Brick?"
"How do I know?" she said gently. "How does any one know? People say
they know; but it is all a great mystery--nothing but a mystery.
Everything that we say, can be but a guess. People have gone mad over
their guessing, or they have broken their hearts. But still the mystery
remains, and we cannot solve it."
"If you don't know anything, Little Brick," he said, "at least tell me
what you think: and don't be too learned; remember I'm only a brainless
fellow."
He seemed to be waiting eagerly for her answer.
"If I were you," she said, "I should not worry. Just make up your mind
to do better when you get another chance. One can't do more than that.
That is what I shall think of: that God will give each one of us another
chance, and that each one of us will take it and do better--I and you
and every one. So there is no need to fret over failure, when one hopes
one may be allowed to redeem that failure later on. Besides which, life
is very hard. Why, we ourselves recognize that. If there be a God, some
Intelligence greater than human intelligence, he will understand better
than ourselves that life is very hard and difficult, and he will be
astonished not _because we are not better, but because we are not
worse_. At least, that would be my notion of a God. I should not worry,
if I were you. Just make up your mind to do better if you get the
chance, and be content with that."
"If that is what you think, Little Brick," he answered, "it is quite
good enough for me. And it does not matter about prayers and the Bible,
and all that sort of thing?"
"I don't think it matters," she said. "I never have thought such things
mattered. What does matter, is to judge gently, and not to come down
like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings. Who are we, any of us,
that we should be hard on others?"
"And not come down like a sledge-hammer on other people's failings," he
repeated slowly. "I wonder if I have ever judged gently."
"I believe you have," she answered.
He shook his head.
"No," he said; "I have been a paltry fellow. I have been lying here,
and elsewhere too, eating my heart away with bitterness, until you came.
Since then I have sometimes forgotten to feel bitter. A little kindness
does away with a great deal of bitterness."
He turned wearily on his side.
"I think I could sleep, Little Brick," he said, almost in a whisper.
"I want to dream about your sermon. And I'm not to worry, am I?"
"No," she answered, as she stepped noiselessly across the room; "you
are not to worry."