A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES.
SHE had left him alone and neglected for whole hours when he was alive.
And now when he was dead, and it probably mattered little to him where
he was laid, it was some time before she could make up her mind to
leave him in the lonely little Petershof cemetery.
"It will be so dreary for him there," she said to the Doctor.
"Not so dreary as you made it for him here," thought the Doctor.
But he did not say that: he just urged her quietly to have her husband
buried in Petershof; and she yielded.
So they laid him to rest in the dreary cemetery.
Bernardine went to the funeral, much against the Disagreeable Man's wish.
"You are looking like a ghost yourself," he said to her. "Come out with
me into the country instead."
But she shook her head.
"Another day," she said. "And Mrs. Reffold wants me. I can't leave her
alone, for she is so miserable."
The Disagreeable Man shrugged his shoulders, and went off by himself.
Mrs. Reffold clung very much to Bernardine those last days before she
left Petershof. She had decided to go to Wiesbaden, where she had
relations; and she invited Bernardine to go with her: it was more than
that, she almost begged her. Bernardine refused.
"I have been from England nearly five months," she said, "and my money
is coming to an end. I must go back and work."
"Then come away with me as my companion," Mrs. Reffold suggested. "And
I will pay you a handsome salary."
Bernardine could not be persuaded.
"No," she said. "I could not earn money that way: it would not suit me.
And besides, you would not care to be a long time with me: you would
soon tire of me. You think you would like to have me with you now. But
I know how it would be: You would be sorry, and so should I. So let us
part as we are now: you going your way, and I going mine. We live in
different worlds, Mrs. Reffold. It would be as senseless for me to
venture into yours, as for you to come into mine. Do you think I am
unkind?"
So they parted. Mrs. Reffold had spoken no word of affection to
Bernardine, but at the station, as she bent down to kiss her, she
whispered:
"I know you will not think too hardly of me. Still, will you promise
me? And if you are ever in trouble, and I can help you, will you write
to me?"
And Bernardine promised.
When she got back to her room, she found a small packet on her table.
It contained Mr. Reffold's watch-chain. She had so often seen him
playing with it. There was a little piece of paper enclosed with it,
and Mr. Reffold had written on it some two months ago: "Give my watch-
chain to Little Brick, if she will sacrifice a little of her pride, and
accept the gift." Bernardine unfastened her watch from the black hair
cord, and attached it instead to Mr. Reffold's massive gold chain.
As she sat there fiddling with it, the idea seized her that she would
be all the better for a day's outing. At first she thought she would go
alone, and then she decided to ask Robert Allitsen. She learnt from
Marie that he was in the dark room, and she hastened down. She knocked
several times before there was any answer.
"I can't be disturbed just now," he said. "Who is it?"
"I can't shout to you," she said.
The Disagreeable Man opened the door of the dark room.
"My negatives will be spoilt," he said gruffly. Then seeing Bernardine
standing there, he added:
"Why, you look as though you wanted some brandy."
"No," she said, smiling at his sudden change of manner. "I want fresh
air, a sledge drive, and a day's outing. Will you come?"
He made no answer, and retired once more into the dark room. Then he
came out with his camera.
"We will go to that inn again," he said cheerily. "I want to take the
photographs to those peasants."
In half an hours time they were on their way. It was the same drive as
before: and since then, Bernardine had seen more of the country, and was
more accustomed to the wonderful white scenery: but still the "white
presences" awed her, and still the deep silence held her. It was the
same scene, and yet not the same either, for the season was now far
advanced, and the melting of the snows had begun. In the far distance
the whiteness seemed as before; but on the slopes near at hand, the
green was beginning to assert itself, and some of the great trees had
cast off their heavy burdens, and appeared more gloomy in their freedom
than in the days of their snow-bondage. The roads were no longer quite
so even as before; the sledge glided along when it could, and bumped
along when it must. Still, there was sufficient snow left to make the
drive possible, and even pleasant.
The two companions were quiet. Once only the Disagreeable Man made a
remark, and then he said:
"I am afraid my negatives will be spoilt!"
"You said that before," Bernardine remarked.
"Well, I say it again," he answered in his grim way.
Then came a long pause.
"The best part of the winter is over," he said. "We may have some more
snow; but it is more probable that we shall not. It is not enjoyable
being here during the melting time."
"Well, in any case I should not be here much longer," she said; "and
for a simple reason, too. I have nearly come to the end of my money.
I shall have to go back and set to work again. I should not have been
able to give myself this chance, but that my uncle spared me some of
his money, to which I added my savings."
"Are you badly off?" the Disagreeable Man asked rather timidly.
"I have very few wants," she answered brightly. "And wealth is only a
relative word, after all."
"It is a pity that you should go back to work so soon," he said half to
himself. "You are only just better; and it is easy to lose what one has
gained."
"Oh, I am not likely to lose," she answered; "but I shall be careful
this time. I shall do a little teaching, and perhaps a little writing:
not much--you need not be vexed. I shall not try to pick up the other
threads yet. I shall not be political, nor educational, nor anything
else great."
"If you call politics or education great," he said. "And heaven defend
me from political or highly educated women!"
"You say that because you know nothing about them," she said sharply.
"Thank you," he replied. "I have met them quite often enough!"
"That was probably some time ago," she said rather heartlessly. "If you
have lived here so long, how can you judge of the changes which go on
in the world outside Petershof?"
"If I have lived here so long," he repeated, in the bitterness of his
heart.
Bernardine did not notice: she was on a subject which always excited her.
"I don't know so much about the political women," she said, "but I do
know about the higher education people. The writers who rail against
the women of this date are really describing the women of ten years ago.
Why, the Girton girl of ten years ago seems a different creation from
the Girton girl of to-day. Yet the latter has been the steady outgrowth
of the former!"
"And the difference between them?" asked the Disagreeable Man; "since
you pride yourself on being so well informed."
"The Girton girl of ten years ago," said Bernardine, "was a, sombre,
spectacled person, carelessly and dowdily dressed, who gave herself up
to wisdom, and despised every one who did not know the Agamemnon by
heart. She was probably not lovable; but she deserves to be honoured
and thankfully remembered. She fought for woman's right to be well
educated, and I cannot bear to hear her slighted. The fresh-hearted
young girl who nowadays plays a good game of tennis, and takes a high
place in the Classical or Mathematical Tripos, and is book learnèd,
without being bookish, and . . . ."
"What other virtues are left, I wonder?" he interrupted.
"And who does not scorn to take a pride in her looks because she happens
to take a pride in her books," continued Bernardine, looking at the
Disagreeable Man, and not seeming to see him: "she is what she is by
reason of that grave and loveless woman who won the battle for her."
Here she paused.
"But how ridiculous for me to talk to you in this way!" she said. "It
is not likely that you would be interested in the widening out of
women's lives."
"And pray why not?" he asked. "Have I been on the shelf too long?"
"I think you would not have been interested even if you had never been
on the shelf," she said frankly. "You are not the type of man to be
generous to woman."
"May I ask one little question of you, which shall conclude this
subject," he said, "since here we are already at the Gasthaus: to which
type of learnèd woman do you lay claim to belong?"
Bernardine laughed.
"That I leave to your own powers of discrimination," she said, and then
added, "if you have any."
And that was the end of the matter, for the word spread about that Herr
Allitsen had arrived, and every one turned out to give the two guests
greeting. Frau Steinhart smothered Bernardine with motherly tenderness,
and whispered in her ear:
"You are betrothed now, liebes Fräulein? Ach, I am sure of it."
But Bernardine smiled and shook her head, and went to greet the others
who crowded round them; and at last poor Catharina drew near too,
holding Bernardine's hand lovingly within her own. Then Hans, Liza's
lover, came upon the scene, and Liza told the Disagreeable Man that she
and Hans were to be married in a month's time. And the Disagreeable Man,
much to Bernardine's amazement, drew from his pocket a small parcel,
which he confided to Liza's care. Every one pressed round her while she
opened it, and found what she had so often wished for, a silver watch
and chain.
"Ach," she cried, "how heavenly! How all the girls here will envy me!
How angry my dear friend Susanna will be!"
Then there were the photographs to be examined.
Liza looked with stubborn disapproval on the pictures of herself in her
working-dress. But she did not conceal her admiration of the portraits
which showed her to the world in her best finery.
"Ach," she cried, "this is something like a photograph!"
The Disagreeable Man grunted, but behaved after the fashion of a hero,
claiming, however, a little silent sympathy from Bernardine.
It was a pleasant, homely scene: and Bernardine, who, felt quite at her
ease amongst these people, chatted away with them as though she had
known them all her life.
Then Frau Steinhart suddenly remembered that her guests needed some food,
and Liza was despatched to her duties as cook; though it was some time
before she could be induced to leave off looking at the photographs.
"Take them with you, Liza," said the Disagreeable Man. "Then we shall
get our meal all the quicker!"
She ran off laughing, and finally Bernardine found herself alone with
Catharina.
"Liza is very happy," she said to Bernardine. "She loves, and is loved."
"That is the greatest happiness," Bernardine said half to herself.
"Fräulein knows?" Catharina asked eagerly.
Bernardine looked wistfully at her companion. "No, Catharina," she said.
"I have only heard and read and seen."
"Then _you_ cannot understand," Catharina said almost proudly. "But _I_
understand!"
She spoke no more after that, but took up her knitting, and watched
Bernardine playing with the kittens. She was playing with the kittens,
and she was thinking; and all the time she felt conscious that this
peasant woman, stricken in mind and body, was pitying her because that
great happiness of loving and being loved had not come into her life.
It had seemed something apart from her; she had never even wanted it.
She had wished to stand alone, like a little rock out at sea.
And now?
In a few minutes the Disagreeable Man and she sat down to their meal.
In spite of her excitement, Liza managed to prepare everything nicely;
though when she was making the omelette _aux fines herbes_, she had to
be kept guarded lest she might run off to have another look at the
silver watch and the photographs of herself in her finest frock!
Then Bernardine and Robert Allitsen drank to the health of Hans and
Liza: and then came the time of reckoning. When he was paying the bill,
Frau Steinhart, having given him the change, said coaxingly:
"Last time, you and Fräulein each paid a share: to-day you pay all. Then
perhaps you are betrothed at last, dear Herr Allitsen? Ach, how the old
Hausfrau wishes you happiness! Who deserves to be happy, if it is not
our dear Herr Allitsen?"
"You have given me twenty centimes too much," he said quietly. "You
have your head so full of other things that you cannot reckon properly."
But seeing that she looked troubled lest she might have offended him,
he added quickly:
"When I am betrothed, good little old housemother, you shall be the
first to know."
And she had to be content with that. She asked no more questions of
either of them: but she was terribly disappointed. There was something
a little comical in her disappointment; but Robert Allitsen was not
amused at it, as he had been on a former occasion. As he leaned back
in the sledge, with the same girl for his companion, he recalled his
feelings. He had been astonished and amused, and perhaps a little shy,
and a great deal relieved that she had been sensible enough to be
amused too.
And now?
They had been constantly together for many months: he who had never
cared before for companionship, had found himself turning more and more
to her.
_And now he was going to lose her_.
He looked up once or twice to make sure that she was still by his side:
she sat there so quietly. At last he spoke in his usual gruff way.
"Have you exhausted all your eloquence in your oration about learned
women?" he asked.
"No, I am reserving it for a better audience," she answered, trying to
be bright. But she was not bright.
"I believe you came out to the country to day to seek for cheerfulness,"
he said after a pause. "Have you found it?"
"I do not know," she said. "It takes me some time to recover from
shocks; and Mr. Reffold's death was a sorrow to me. What do you think
about death? Have you any theories about life and death, and the bridge
between them? Could you say anything to help one?"
"Nothing," he answered. "Who could? And by what means?"
"Has there been no value in philosophy," she asked, "and the meditations
of learnèd men?"
"Philosophy!" he sneered. "What has it done for us? It has taught us
some processes of the mind's working; taught us a few wonderful things
which interest the few; but the centuries have come and gone, and the
only thing which the whole human race pants to know, remains unknown:
our beloved ones, shall we meet them, and how?--the great secret of the
universe. We ask for bread, and these philosophers give us a stone.
What help could come from them: or from any one? Death is simply one of
the hard facts of life."
"And the greatest evil," she said.
"We weave our romances about the next world," he continued; "and any
one who has a fresh romance to relate, or an old one dressed up in new
language, will be listened to, and welcomed. That helps some people for
a little while; and when the charm of the romance is over, then they
are ready for another, perhaps more fantastic than the last. But the
plot is always the same: our beloved ones--shall we meet them, and how?
Isn't it pitiful? Why cannot we be more impersonal? These puny, petty
minds of ours! When will they learn to expand?"
"Why should we learn to be more impersonal?" she said. "There was a time
when I felt like that; but now I have learnt something better: that we
need not be ashamed of being human; above all, of having the best of
human instincts, love, and the passionate wish for its continuance, and
the unceasing grief at its withdrawal. There is no indignity in this;
nor any trace of weakmindedness in our restless craving to know about
the Hereafter, and the possibilities of meeting again those whom we have
lost here. It is right, and natural, and lovely that it should be the
most important question. I know that many will say that there _are_
weightier questions: they say so, but do they think so? Do we want to
know first and foremost whether we shall do our work better elsewhere:
whether we shall be endowed with more wisdom: whether, as poor
Mr. Reffold said, we shall be glad to behave less like curs, and more
like heroes? These questions come in, but they can be put aside. The
other question can _never_ be put on one side. If that were to become
possible, it would only be so because the human heart had lost the best
part of itself, its own humanity. We shall go on building our bridge
between life and death, each one for himself. When we see that it is
not strong enough, we shall break it down and build another. We shall
watch other people building their bridges. We shall imitate, or
criticise, or condemn. But as time goes on, we shall learn not to
interfere, we shall know that one bridge is probably as good as the
other; and that the greatest value of them all has been in the building
of them. It does not matter what we build, but build we must: you, and I,
and every one."
"I have long ceased to build my bridge," the Disagreeable Man said.
"It is an almost unconscious process," she said. "Perhaps you are still
at work, or perhaps you are resting."
He shrugged his shoulders, and the two comrades fell into silence again.
They were within two miles of Petershof, when he broke the silence:
there was something wonderfully gentle in his voice.
"You little thing," he said, "we are nearing home, and I have something
to ask you. It is easier for me to ask here in the free open country,
where the space seems to give us breathing room for our cramped lungs
and minds!"
"Well," she said kindly; she wondered what he could have to say.
"I am a little nervous of offending you," he continued, "and yet I trust
you. It is only this. You said you had come to the end of your money,
and that you must go home. It seems a pity when you are getting better.
I have so much more than I need. I don't offer it to you as a gift, but
I thought if you wished to stay longer, a loan from me would not be
quite impossible to you. You could repay as quickly or as slowly as was
convenient to you, and I should only be grateful and" . . . .
He stopped suddenly.
The tears had gathered in Bernardine's eyes her hand rested for one
moment on his arm.
"Mr. Allitsen," she said, "you did well to trust me. But I could not
borrow money of any one, unless I was obliged. If I could of any one,
it would have been of you. It is not a month ago since I was a little
anxious about money; my remittances did not come. I thought then that
if obliged to ask for temporary help, I should come to you: so you see
if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you."
A smile passed over the Disagreeable Man's face, one of his rare,
beautiful smiles.
"Supposing you change your mind," he said quietly, "you will not find
that I have changed mine."
Then a few minutes brought them back to Petershof.